


At Your Door

by forgotten_constellation



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Auror Ron Weasley, Bisexual Male Character, Courtship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, POV Ron Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), hm. does this count? i think it only just meets the criteria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotten_constellation/pseuds/forgotten_constellation
Summary: “We are two Purebloods of marrying age, and you were in my flat, with your arm all over me and your stupid Weasley lips on my forehead! My feet were bare! It wasn’t proper! It’s not done!” Draco bellows.Ron stares blankly up at him. And then he bursts out laughing, just at the stupidity of it all. Draco’s nostrils flare, but then he’s grinning, too. He reaches out to place one slender hand over Ron’s, squeezing it as they snicker helplessly like school children. His brows are still all narrow, like he’d love to reach out and smack Ron over his head, but he’s laughing, so maybe it’s not all bad.ORRon's just trying to be a good friend and keep his work buddy from being forced into a marriage he's not interested in.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 34
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I edited this to the best of my ability, but it is currently 3am for me, so please excuse me for mistakes I left behind. Enjoy!

**I.**

There’s more to the Ministry’s Auror department than a red-robed policing force. There are record keepers, medics, intelligence, counselors, potions makers. The Malfoy name means very little after the war, but nobody in their right mind can deny a set of truly exemplary N.E.W.T.s and a great couple of years as an apprentice at St. Mungo’s, so Draco Malfoy’s application fits nicely into the terms of his parole. He’s doing work that will aid their society, and is neatly under the Ministry’s thumb. Ron spends months seeing Malfoy in passing to and from the field and his office, and he makes it a point to nod at him in greeting, mostly because Hermione would want them to be polite. Malfoy always nods quickly and distractedly back, usually busy, his hair either coming messily undone from his low ponytail, a surprising new wave to it now that he doesn’t have the time to aggressively slick it back with whatever gel had plagued him in school, or pulled tightly up into a bun atop his head when coming back from the field. Ron’s more distracted by that stupid hair than he’d like, but then Malfoy quirks a half-smile at him, small but genuine (the way it had been starting with the repeat year all the 8th years spent rebuilding Hogwarts from what felt like brick-by-brick), and that’s the most distracting thing of all. 

He finally sees it up close after a ridiculous day in the field sends Ron and his partner, Finch-Fletchley, roving through the countryside trading hexes with some foolhardy wizards hoping to break into Gringotts. After all the trouble, all it takes is a petrification curse and simple levitation to bring them in, but then Ron’s gagging up sparks and slugs, and Justin gives him an exasperated look before dragging him to the infirmary. Malfoy is on-duty with three other red-robed medics, his probation officer by now a familiar stone-faced presence at the back of the small infirmary, and Ron’s treated to the unfairly nice view of Malfoy bullying his hair into place before snapping some gloves on. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Malfoy asks. 

Ron burps up a slug, and then lets out an indignant little growl of embarrassment and pain as Malfoy very deliberately flattens his mouth, dimples popping fetchingly into place. 

“Laugh it up, Malfoy,” he grinds out, sparks pulsing uncomfortably through his teeth.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Malfoy croaks out. 

“Do you remember--” 

“Second year? Yes.” And this time, Malfoy really does smile, all frustratingly perfect teeth, and it pulls a similar smile onto Ron’s face.

And though this deep amusement wreaks havoc on his professionalism, he takes a moment to collect himself, and then he’s gently cupping Ron’s face. He calls a low-level lumos onto his wand, moves it slowly up and down and from side to side, monitoring his eye movement. He checks Ron’s pulse, asks Justin a rapid fire round of questions about the type of hex and the distance and its power, and then he’s gently running Ron through a gamut of counterhexes and a low-level recovery spell that has a wave of exhaustion hitting him. 

“You have nice hair,” Ron garbles, before the world goes black. 

He catches Malfoy giving him another mile as he loses his grip on consciousness. 

He comes to every now and then, and Malfoy is usually there--scribbling away at a pad, or standing by his bed and pressing the back of his cool hand against Ron’s forehead, or bickering playfully with the other medics. By the time he’s fully awake, the sun is down, and Malfoy gives him a tired little smile. 

“You’re free to go home, Weasley. You had a rough day. Potter’s waiting outside for you, he’s agreed to take you back to your flat.” 

And then he’s got his nose back in his notepad, his parole officer letting out a great big yawn against the wall. He’s an older Auror whose name escapes Ron on the best of days, and he gives Ron an annoyed glance. As Ron sits up, he realizes that the infirmary is empty, free of other medics and the rotating queue of rowdy Aurors who file in to get patched up after fieldwork.

“Did you stay late on my account?” Ron asks, baffled. 

“Well, I had to make sure your lungs weren’t filled with slime and dark magic, Weasley.” Malfoy answers, patiently. 

Embarrassed, Ron lets out a little noise of understanding and throws his leg over the side of the bed. Giving Malfoy and his parole officer a sheepish smile, he says, “Thanks.” 

“It’s my job. Take care.” Malfoy hums, turning back to his writing. 

Malfoy writes so much these days. Surely healers don’t have that much to talk about? 

  
  


**II.**

“Er. Have lunch with me.” 

“What?” 

“When do you take your breaks? I’ll ask for mine to be at the same time and I’ll buy you lunch.” 

Malfoy furrows his brows at Ron, and then leans back from his little desk. “Are you having me on?” 

“No.” 

“Is this some charity thing?” 

“Harry’s not gonna be the best company while he’s stuffing his face, and Hermione won’t let me eat without making sure that I’m getting my paperwork done. I know you, so we should eat together.” It’s horrible logic, and Ron can feel his ears heating up as Malfoy presses his lips thin like he’s doing his best not to laugh, those damned dimples once again making a reappearance.

“You’re paying?” 

“Sure, you can get whatever you want.” 

Malfoy levels him with a look that’s comfortingly familiar in its narrowness, but then he nods, and looks back down at his cauldron, stirring lazily. “I’m free in two hours.” 

“Brilliant.” Ron says, relieved. 

“Auror Horan will have to join us,” Malfoy warns, like he thinks that’ll scare Ron off. 

“Great, I’ll pay for his too, if he wants it.” 

And he’s expecting Malfoy to sneer, or maybe make a joke about the Weasley vaults and unwise spending habits, but he only gives Ron another long look before agreeing. 

And that is how their friendship begins, as most things with them do. Abruptly, intensely, with little rhyme or reason. Ron sacrifices a lunch break with his best friends to pester Draco Malfoy out of the dimly-lit clinical dungeons of his work, and they take their lunch in muggle London if only to avoid the press. Auror Horan, a no-nonsense Irishman, gives Ron a cursory pat down each time, and then follows them to whatever restaurant they settle on for the day.

“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?” Malfoy asks, just once, looking genuinely curious. 

“What? No. I just figured you wouldn’t want cameras shoved in your face. But if you want to be seen with me, I’d do it.” 

“Why would I ever want that?” 

“Wouldn’t it look good for you to be seen with me? Golden trio and all?” Ron asks. 

It feels weirdly good when Malfoy scowls and reaches out to smack him on the arm with his thick journal, muttering about Gryffindors with huge egos. It feels familiar. Like maybe the world is less on its head and there’s some direction. They don’t talk about shame again for a long time.

  
  


**III.**

It was inevitable that word would get out about their friendship. Malfoy has very few friends in the Ministry, and especially few within the Auror department, many of whom believe very strongly that he wiggled his way out of a much-deserved punishment. 

He’s expecting Harry to be angry about it, or at least tactfully reticent, but he just asks Ron if he’s having a good time.

“A good time? I mean, yeah. Malfoy’s an alright bloke.” 

Harry laughs in his face. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say so.” 

Hermione purses her lips and pointedly does not comment until Ron budges it out of her. She breathes in through her nose and says, “I think it’s nice.” 

What it looks like she thinks is that she’d rather be on the receiving end of Neville’s stink sap mishaps, and it’s taking her a powerful amount of self-restraint not to rattle off any number of reasons why it won’t go well. Ron leaves it alone for a good week and waits until she breaks. 

When she does, Ron props his chin in his hand and watches her square her shoulders, her hair wildly astray, affection warming his chest. 

“I just think it’s funny how,” she begins, and then her severe expression crumples into guilty amusement when Harry starts howling with laughter over her shoulder. 

They’re all assembled by the fireplace at Grimmauld, paperwork and snacks littered between them, not unlike their slower days in the library at Hogwarts, whispering together to avoid the wrath of Madam Pince.

“That’s a record.” Ron quips. 

Harry snorts, tiredly pushing his spectacles up into his hair, deep green eyes tired. It’s in moments like these, with his friends unkempt and tired and warm with laughter, where Ron feels most at home, no matter where he is. There’s an odd little part of him that briefly imagines what it would be like with Malfoy among them, maybe his hair undone, nipping at his quill the way he does when he’s writing and needs to take a moment to think.

“Honestly, Harry! How do you feel about it?” 

“It’s weird!” Harry answers, cheerfully. 

“Then why aren’t you worried about Ronald’s judgement?” 

“You’re the one who said you thought it was nice.” 

Hermione bites her lip. “I do! It’s just, I didn’t want it to get… I just. Oh, you’re horrible!” 

She smacks Harry with her book, and when Ron laughs she reaches over and smacks him, too, as hard as always. After they’ve calmed, Harry gives him another one of those piercing looks, the one that always makes Ron feel like he’s being seen into. At one point in his life, Ron had wondered if perhaps he was meant to be friends to two people like this--people so intense and effortlessly talented. For Ron, the things he’s good at have all been worked towards. He’d started wizard’s chess out of absent tradition and then stuck to it with intensity when he realized none of his siblings took to it like he did; Quidditch had been an exercise in effort, and external encouragement; he’d suffered the most out of anyone in their early days training as Aurors. And, in a way, this friendship with Malfoy seems hard earned--something he did out of stubbornness and for no reason other than that he suddenly wanted to, and maybe it’s foolish, but it’s most certainly worth it. 

Harry’s look reads, Are you sure? And Ron means it when he just grins and looks back down at his work. 

**IV.**

“We’re related, you know,” Malfoy says, as they’re walking out of the Ministry together, Auror Horan trailing the same respectable distance he keeps when they spend time together. 

“How d’you mean? Oh, my grandma?” 

Malfoy says, “Yes. She was disowned for marrying into your lot, of course, but I was looking over the family trees and was surprised to get the reminder.” 

Ron scratches his head, “How does that even work? What’s the, er, dana percentage?” 

Malfoy furrows his brows at him. “Dana?” 

“You know, the stuff in your blood that makes people look alike,” Ron says, waving his hands. 

And then he’s gifted with one of Malfoy’s rare, full smiles as he says, “You mean DNA, Weasley? Deoxyribonucleic acid?” And then he laughs, completely laughs at the way Ron’s face crumples in confusion, nothing at all like the deep chuckles of amusement Ron has managed to pull out of him on a good day.

Hermione would know all about this, Ron thinks, feeling his face heat. Malfoy doesn’t look like he’s laughing to mock him, though--mostly, it just looks like fondness, and there’s this awfully nice curl of warmth in his stomach when Malfoy reaches out and briefly squeezes his shoulders, nicely-manicured nails glittering in the light of the atrium. 

“Call me Ron. You know, since we’re family and all,” Ron says. 

Malfoy’s laughter eases, but there’s still a smile on his face as he says, “You shan’t call me Draco, though. What would people think?” 

“That we’re friends?” Ron asks around a laugh, which makes Malfoy grin again.

“How very pedestrian,” Malfoy hums, looking briefly down at his books. 

“I’m calling you Draco!” 

“Because we’re friends?” 

“I’m this close to hexing you, mate.” 

They laugh their way out of the atrium, and it occurs to Ron that he could feel the eyes of what felt like everyone on their backs, watching bemusedly as they joked and laughed about being friends and cousins something or other once, twice, thrice, four times removed, or something like that. He doesn’t care.

After that, things change, in a way that feels tentative but really good. Sometimes Draco joins Ron for lunch with Harry and Hermione when the two of them start complaining about missing him, like he doesn’t give them most of his time outside of work. They share stiff but polite conversation, that eventually devolves into tentative jokes and teasing, and then once, Draco makes one of his tasteless jokes about Harry dying again, and Harry looks thunderously angry for a moment as Draco’s face goes especially white and he apologizes. He doesn’t even apologize to Ron for stepping on his toes, especially because most of the time it’s on purpose, but it’s the principle of the thing. But that makes his friends a little less suspicious, and some nervous little knot Ron didn’t know was there unravels a bit further.

Sometimes on free days they meet for intense games of wizard’s chess, and sometimes Draco helps him through less confidential paperwork, and sometimes they reminisce on school and even find places to laugh about it all. Auror Horan, gruff but not really that upset about it, delivers messages between them when schedules don’t allow for seeing each other in person. Draco sends wry little notes about silly patients, or asks for reassurance amidst something riddled with insults to make it seem less like he needs it. Once, he sends a message as simple as, _I was thinking about you. Hoping your day is going well._ Ron keeps all of Draco’s messages, but it’s this one he folds into his robes’ inner pockets for strength. The next few months pass in a soothing routine of fieldwork and family and this new friendship that he cherishes.  
  


**V.**

It’s an accident, meeting Draco’s parents. 

He’s allowed a limited number of guests, given his parole, and the wards around his modest London flat announce each visitor with a hum of rippling magic resounding as each person steps in. Ron’s visits to Draco’s place usually amount to a friendly apparition after work, so Auror Horan could stay behind at the Ministry and clock out, or the rare floo call when Ron felt like their lunchtime debates had ended unfairly. For some reason, it feels too much like a sanctum. Draco isn’t afforded a lot of privacy these days. Ron doesn’t linger, won’t stay unless he’s invited. He’s not quite sure he’s there yet. 

So it’s the end of another long work day when they come back, Malfoy’s arm still linked through his as he leans down and to undo the laces on his ridiculously expensive (but very nice) ankle boots and then unceremoniously kick them off. Sometimes, their conversation carries between one lazy apparition and the next, and after getting comfortable Draco breathes in and continues. 

“Anyways, as I was saying, you’re perfectly capable at breaking low-level curses--using the Yaxley Reduction technique was brilliant thinking, Ron--so Finch-Fletchley is an idiot, no surprise there. I’m not allowed to perform the sort of magic all that involves, but I can point you to theory that will help you in the future.” 

“I don’t know, I think we should just leave it to the curse breakers, mate.” 

Draco’s nostrils flare. He can be remarkably like Hermione when he’s frustrated. “And what if time is of the essence? You had a good idea, and you acted on it. I don’t see why that’s a terrible breach of protocol.” 

Were Ron thinking straight, he wouldn’t have chalked up the random burst of magic to a flare of Draco’s temper. He would have thought twice about leaning over to tuck some of the hair that’s fallen from Draco’s low ponytail behind his ear (the way he’s been dying to for months now) and saying, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were ready to fight for my honor.” 

Draco turns his nose up at him and says, “It’s a matter of pride.”

“You’re mad.” Ron laughs. 

“Barking, apparently.” Draco says.

“Indeed,” a familiarly deep voice says, catching both of their attention. 

Draco glances over his shoulder and says, “Mother! Father! Hello! It’s… late! I wasn’t expecting you!” 

He tries to dislodge his arm from Ron’s, but Ron is hit with a childish burst of stubbornness and holds on tighter, which makes Draco look back at him, eyes unreadable. Standing at Draco’s door are his two frustratingly blond, frustratingly well put together parents, their arms linked much like Ron and Draco’s. Narcissa, who has, oddly enough, become one of Harry’s most trusted confidants, doesn’t look so surprised to see him, though her eyes do linger on their closeness. Old Lucius is scowling like he could make a career out of it. Ron grins at him. 

“R--Weasl--Ron,” he settles on, after Ron takes advantage of his lankiness to lean around and pinch him in the side, “was just taking me home. I’ll _see him tomorrow_ ,” he adds, unnecessary emphasis in his voice. 

It’s so stupid. He’ll probably wonder for years why he did it. But he just hums and says, “Nice to see you,” to Lucius and Narcissa bloody Malfoy, and then he leans down and kisses the temple of Draco bloody Malfoy, and lets out a loud bark of laughter at the gaping look Draco gives him as he waves and disapparates.

  
  


**VI.**

“My parents,” Draco hisses, bursting into Ron’s cramped little office, where Harry and Hermione are resting on Ron’s desk and on the floor, respectively. 

“Your parents,” Ron parrots, diplomatically.

“Move, Potter,” Draco frowns at Harry, the frown deepening when Harry just raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture and scoots over. 

He leans down, flattening his hands on Ron’s desk. This close, Ron can see (to his surprise) that there’s a few freckles scattered here and there on the bridge of Draco’s nose, and along the place here his gauzy medic’s robes dip below his prominent collarbones. His hair is pulled up into an endearingly messy bun atop his head--he’d just got out of a hard few hours of work, then--and there are deep smudges underneath his eyes. He looks nice. Lived-in. Unkempt and tired, although with none of the warmth he’d also like to see.

“My parents think that you are courting me.” Draco announces. “And they’re not very happy about it.” 

“What!” Hermione cries out. 

“How could they possibly think that?” Harry asks, confused as always by most things that happen with wizards. 

Ron pillows his face in his hands. “Do they?” 

“Yes. And you know why they’re upset? Not just because you’re a Weasley, though that certainly is enough to make Father think the world is ending. No, it’s mostly because they think you’re too embarrassed to do the decent thing and declare it.” 

“I”m not embarrassed to declare anything! What are you on about?” Ron cries. 

“Surely your family hasn't fallen _that_ far behind on Pureblood tradition,” Draco says, some of the anger leaving him in a tired little breath. 

And then Ron gets it. He groans and pillows his face in his hands again. 

“What? What’s happening?” Hermione asks, standing. She’s clutching her stack of papers and folders tightly, jaw set. 

“Sometimes I take Draco home after the day is up. You know, so he doesn’t have to wait for his parole officer to finish up for the day before taking him back. So they saw us yesterday night after we’d just apparated, and we were talking, and I thought it would be funny to just… make them angry.” 

“You did _not_ need to kiss me!” Draco says, hotly, a surprising burst of pink rising to his cheeks. 

“Kiss you?” Hermione shrills. 

“It was on the forehead, mate, I thought it was funny!” 

“The forehead?” Harry guffaws.

“We are two Purebloods of marrying age, and you were in my flat, with your arm all over me and your stupid Weasley lips on my forehead! My feet were bare! It wasn’t proper! It’s not done!” Draco bellows.

Ron stares blankly up at him. And then he bursts out laughing, just at the stupidity of it all. Draco’s nostrils flare, but then he’s grinning, too. He reaches out to place one slender hand over Ron’s, squeezing it as they snicker helplessly like school children. His brows are still all narrow, like he’d love to reach out and smack Ron over his head, but he’s laughing, so maybe it’s not all bad.

The Weasley family has been barred from so many of the old Pureblood conventions that he’d almost forgotten what it meant, to be so newly acquainted with someone and in their space, to make physical declarations in front of their parents. He may as well have stripped bare and announced he was going to ravish their only son.

“You will make a formal announcement that we’re just friends, this instant.” Draco says. 

“We’ve got paperwork, Draco!” Ron protests.

“You know what I mean! I can’t have my parents hissing down my neck about this. They want me to marry the little Greengrass and I can’t guarantee they won’t expire from the emotional upheaval of having to include you in the courtship process.” 

Ron feels a little swooping in his gut. A lot of the mirth that had been building in his chest is tempered, abruptly. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that Draco’s irritated expression softens at whatever he sees on Ron’s face. He squeezes Ron’s hand again.

“I really am sorry, Ron. I can’t imagine why they’d think there was anything there. I know you lot don’t like to be in the news.” 

“It’s alright, mate. Not your fault. Am I still good to take you home tonight?” 

Draco winces. “Perhaps not tonight.” 

“Sure, yeah. Anyway, don’t you have pimples to be popping? Off with ya! I’ll hail some reporter or something before the rumor mill gets started!” 

Draco gives him a sly smile over his shoulder on his way out. “That’s why you’re my favorite of this little trio. See you later.” 

And then he’s doing what Ron likes to call the gathering game, where he breathes in deep and squares his shoulders and flattens his expression, preparing himself for the scrutiny of the world at large. He presses his hands against Ron’s heavy office door, gives him and only him a finger wagging wave of farewell, and is gone, in a swish of red robes. 

Ron gets about three minutes of silence before Harry and Hermione are absolutely raining questions down upon him.

“Why would they think you two would be courting?” Harry asks. 

“For marriage, of course.” 

“What about heirs? Aren’t Purebloods crazy about that?” 

“I could give Draco an heir. What are you on about?” Ron asks, baffled. 

“How can two blokes do that? Do you seriously think the Malfoys will be okay with adopting?” 

“Honestly, Harry, do you not remember anything I’ve told you about wizarding families? There are so many options…” Hermione butts in. Then she glares at Ron. “Why would you tease Malfoy like that?” 

“Tease _him_ ? What? I was trying to tease his _parents_!” Ron whines. 

Hermione gives him several swift, brisk hits with her heavy papers, which he endures with resignation. “Oh, I hate men!” 

  
  


**VII.**

“I’m only going to ask you this once, so you’ve got to be honest with me.” Ron says, very seriously, over lunch. 

He has a moment where he allows himself to hate their circumstances. Hates that they have to dip into another world to eat together in peace, hates that there’s a bloody Auror two tables away staring confusedly at the daily lives of the muggles around them. 

“Of course,” Draco says, giving him a curious look. 

“Do you want to marry Greengrass?” 

There’s a moment of loud quiet between them. Their waitress stops back by their table to refill their glasses, and Draco absently thanks her, turning wide gray eyes back at Ron, an earnest sadness filling them. 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know her. I wasn’t expecting you of all people to ask that. Aren’t your lot all about marrying for love? I don’t want to live the sequel to my parents’ lives, Ron. I don’t want to marry someone I don’t know and quit my job and throw money at my problems. That’s dreadfully boring.” Draco explains, looking down at his hands. 

“So why’s it so bad, then? That they think we’re courting? I’m not that horrible to look at, am I?” 

“Of course not. I told you not to talk about yourself like that,” Draco warns, “That’s my job.” 

It makes him laugh, eases some of the tension. 

“How about, I do some research--” Draco snorts loudly at that, which makes Ron roll his eyes and talk louder, “and, you know. Go through the motions. And give you time to get your parents off your back. I can tell everybody that I want to court you, and I’m serious about it and I’ll fight for you. You get even more free meals than I’m already giving you, and some time with a friend.” 

Draco gives him another of those unreadable looks. “You mean it, don’t you?” 

“Of course!” 

“What if I can’t get my parents off my back? What if you have to marry me?” 

“There are worse fates than marrying your friends. Did your parents even like each other when they got married?” 

And it isn't like anyone else is scrambling to marry him, either.

Draco gives him a flat, unamused look. “You’re ridiculous, Ronald Weasley.” 

“Kind of my talent, innit?”

“You understand you’ve just asked me to marry you, if push comes to shove.” 

“Want me to get a ring and get on my knees, do you?” 

Draco tilts his nose up. “If it goes well. I’m not some easily won floozy, you understand.” 

“Of course. I know you. Now. Do you want some desert?” 

Draco gives him a guilty little smile. “Would it be too much? I’ve been absolutely gagging for the tiramisu they just added to the menu.” 

Ron says no, of course not, and he means it. There’s something kind of cute about Draco’s quiet obsession with sweets. Ron remembers the letters his mother would send him, all laden with chocolates. It’s so out of place for someone so ruthlessly proper, and so downright mean when he wants to be, that he just about turns into goo at the thought of having something sweet. It’s enough to quiet the little voice shouting that he might have made a mistake. 

**VIII.**

As he was expecting, Mum goes on a legendary face journey when he announces his intentions to her. 

“The Malfoy boy? Really?” 

“Mum, I really like him!” He doesn’t have to do much to make it sound real. He does like Draco. Just, not like that. It’s for a friend. Really.

“What on Earth for? Didn’t he spend years calling you a weasel?” 

Draco _still_ calls him a weasel sometimes, but Mum doesn’t need to know that. 

She drags him into the kitchen, where she’d been working when he flooed in. Despite her irritation with him, he’s filled with an inordinate amount of affection watching her, her hair all mess around her, flour dusting her hands and cheeks, waving her wand this way and that. She’s still the same old Mum, even though there’s the odd shock of white in her hair these days, and more wrinkles every other day.

“I love you, Mum.” 

The declaration seems to surprise her. When she turns to face him, her eyes are shining. “I love you too, sweetheart. Oh, come here, you insufferable boy.” 

She folds him into one of her legendary hugs, huffing about how it’s unfair that all her children are taller than her. He bends down to accommodate her, taking in her comforting bakery scent. 

“Draco really likes sweets,” he says. 

“How about I make some jam-filled scones for your first gift, then.” She pats him on the back. 

So it is with these scones that Ron makes his formal announcement, right there in the atrium of the ministry, when Draco and Auror Horan are between trips to St. Mungos for supplies. He’s got the sleeves of his robes all rolled up (he has a habit of covering his Dark Mark with this or that collection of terribly fancy wrist bands, the git) and his hair’s gone just a bit wavy where it’s pulled into a high ponytail. But when he sees Ron, the focused look on his face softens, and then brightens into a smile when Ron stops him and makes an aborted gesture with the little basket in his free hand. Ron doesn’t ever look forward to being on the Prophet’s crazy front pages, and he knows the news will spread quickly, so he’d asked Luna to be there to witness it. An exclusive will do The Quibbler some good. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Ron says, wincing at the way his voice breaks into a little squeak at the end, a nervous tic he hasn’t ever been able to get rid of. In the abrupt silence that has descended on the atrium, it sounds especially loud, matched only by the occasional footfall and Luna’s wordless scribbling.

“Ronald,” Draco says, haughty. 

He can see Draco bite the inside of one cheek to keep from smiling.

“I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, hereby declare my intent to court you. If my, er, my…” 

“If it please you,” Draco whispers. 

“If it please you, at the end of this courtship, I would be honored if you would consider accepting my hand in marriage.” 

Draco nods. “Very well, then. What gift have you brought for me?” 

“My mum made you some little scones. She filled them with blackberry jam.” 

“That’s my favorite,” Draco says, voice surprisingly tender. 

Ron smiles. “I know that. Think you haven’t put a dent in my vault making me get you those awful little tarts?” 

“You always say you don’t mind!” 

“I don’t. Will you accept my gift?” 

Draco nods and takes the basket with greedy hands, pulling back the cloth over the basket. He lets out a little sigh of pleasure at their smell--they’d been spelled to stay warm--and pops one into his mouth, letting out a warm little noise at the taste. Mum’s an amazing cook, Ron knows that, but he’s not prepared for the blush at hearing Draco make a noise like that. He swallows. 

When Draco’s done, he reaches out and squeezes Ron’s arm. “I’ll see you later.” 

Ron watches him go, amused to see him protectively cradle the basket to his chest when Auror Horan grumbles about seeing what the fuss is about and reaches for a scone. Draco calls him everything from a sleepy-eyed old retiree, to a presumptuous Irish half-blood fool, to horrendously unprofessional, which lets Ron know he’s a lot happier than he’s letting on, because Draco doesn’t get especially mouthy in public unless someone’s pushed him to some emotional extreme. Also, Ron can see him fighting a smile. He looks at Ron over his shoulder once again, and waves goodbye. 

After, he stumbles his way through an awkward interview with Luna about his friendship with Draco and his intentions, and then gives her a hug for her help. 

“You’re a good friend, Ron. Make sure you don’t get hurt, though.” 

Then she pats him on the cheek before he can ask her what she means, and flits away. Ron is quickly reminded of all the bulging eyes staring his way. Yeah, some bloody friend he is. 

**IX.**

When he sees Harry and Hermione next, it’s at the Burrow. Everyone looks at him like he’s a ghost. And then Hermione has the gall to march up to him, aim her wand his way, and say, “ _Revelio_.” 

A wave of tingling magic rolls over his skin, but nothing happens. Ron frowns at her. “What was that for?” 

“Just making sure.” She says, primly. 

“Stop, Hermione.” Ginny sighs, coming up beside her. 

She gives Ron a hug, still smelling of the Quidditch pitch. Ron hugs her tightly, hit very suddenly with how much he missed her. “Everyone thinks you’ve gone round the bend.”

I am a good friend, Ron thinks to himself, praying for patience. I am a good friend. 

It’s a tense but mostly okay family get together. Mum is visibly still worried, asking question after question after his health, but otherwise not asking all the questions Ron knows she wants to ask. 

Dad keeps saying, “Are you absolutely sure? Absolutely?”

Bill is supportive in his own way, Charlie makes some nutter joke about dragon taming because he’s _that_ cheesy, Percy frets over what it’ll do to his career, George doesn’t have much to say these days but just tells him to be careful, and Ginny says, “It’ll be funny if he rejects you after all that, but I’m wishing you luck.”

“I’m still lost on the whole wizard babies thing,” Harry confesses, ducking when both Ginny and Hermione hit him from either sides. 

Of course, that’s got dad all fired up. “Oh, you don’t know about it Harry? It all depends. If two witches or two wizards want to have a family, they can consult a fertility expert on it all. One of them could carry, or they could brew and incubate, or--” 

“You can _brew_ a kid?” Harry asks, eyes wide. 

“Oh, yeah! It’s really quite fascinating stuff, Ron, how about you ask your Draco about it, he’s a healer after all…” 

And then the rest of the night, they’re drawn into an awful, terrible, no good conversation about marriage and babies and gifts. By the time the older adults have dispersed, Harry props his chin into his hand and says, “So.” 

“So.” Hermione echoes.

“Don’t you two start.” Ron whines, pressing his face into his hands. 

“We’re just worried about you, Ronald. This is a little fast.” Hermione says, reaching out to score her hands through his hair. She gives the best head scratches.

“We’ve been friends for almost a year,” Ron says, surprising himself with the knowledge. 

Has time really passed that quickly? He remembers being similarly surprised every other milestone: after their hard-earned eighth year. A year into his Auror training. The next year. The year after. The absent surprise he felt at realizing Draco Malfoy had been accepted into the Auror medic program, a promising graduate form his St. Mungo’s apprenticeship. It’s difficult to remember that he took part in a war, except for outside of the absent nightmare or the somber tone that overtakes them when Fred’s not there to pull George into mischief during family holidays.

“When I asked you why you were teasing, I wasn’t expecting you to turn around and do this.” Hermione says. 

And then she’s giving him a look that’s scarily assessing. Ron ignores it. 

Harry says, “Does he make you happy?” 

“Yeah,” Ron answers, no need to lie or conjure up the feelings, “he’s bloody awful sometimes, yeah, but he’s hilarious. He’s happy to play chess if we have time. I get free checkups. Sometimes I complain about feeling… you know, stuck, and he gets all angry and starts talking about solutions. He brings me books and makes notes for me to read and he’s all, ‘I can’t be friends with people who half-arse things, Weaselbee!’ but I know it’s because he wants me to do my best.” 

And when he says it like that, it just sounds like… a really good friend. Ron abruptly has to remind himself that they are friends, that this isn’t really real, not like that, because Draco’s terribly clever and will find some way to get his parents off his back and none of the marriage or wizard baby stuff will ever happen. But he can give Draco a good time in the interim. 

  
  


**X.**

It’s a bit tricky, with Draco’s parole, but they work it out. There are really only a few locations Draco is allowed to go, when he’s not being watched. There’s the ministry. If Auror Horan agrees, he can take two hours for lunch outside the ministry, which they use for their lunches in muggle London. St. Mungo’s. The Manor. His flat. Most of his friends visit him if they want to see him, or find a way to annoy him while he’s on duty. Once news of their “courtship” gets out, that is how Ron sees himself bringing a gaggle of snotty Slytherins to lunch. 

“How is this proving I’ll be a good husband?” Ron complains. 

“It shows you can provide, Weasley.” Pansy Parkinson sniffs. 

Her answer gets an eye-roll from Zabini, who Ron had been pleasantly surprised to find is just as mean-but-funny as Draco. “We’re his closest friends, so we’ll make sure there’s… compatibility. And if we get some free food out of it, well, that’s a bonus.” 

“This is basically to make sure you won’t be a shithead,” Goyle supplies, full of infinite wisdom.

“Like I said, to show you can provide. It’s not just money.” Parkinson insists. “Good company is an important aspect!”

Draco reaches out and pinches her, lightning fast, and it couldn’t have hurt that much but she howls like he’s killed her anyway, and then Goyle is making play fisticuffs at Draco in response, and the three of them are trading gentle blows, Draco grinning and laughing freely as Zabini breaks them apart with all the patience of a parent used to disrupting the aims of especially rowdy children. 

As they settle down, Auror Horan sitting his customary two tables away staring fascinated at a muggle newspaper (it’s so bizarre how their pictures don’t move), Ron immediately notes that while Draco has smiled and even laughed for him, he’s not as free with his amusement with Ron as he is with these three. And why would he be? Ron knows how Pureblood families are, especially Sacred Twenty-Eight. These four were probably in nappies together, probably spent hours flying about in their fancy manicured lawns. 

But then Draco interrupts his growing frustration with a gentle hand on his shoulder, bragging outrageously about the work Ron’s done as an Auror, and all the progress he’s making with curse breaking, and how his partner is “all but useless” but he does the best with what he has. And then in the same breath, he’s insulting him for being a boor with no style and also incredibly loud.

Ron says, “Oi! Which one of us was it who started yelling over wizard’s chess last time?” 

“Your pieces, Weasel,” Draco says, patiently, “were cheating.” 

“No, they were doing what wizard’s chess pieces do and helping their player out, you bellend.” 

Draco swats at him with his notebook, but he’s also rolling his eyes. "Don't be vulgar.

“You’re mad because you lost,” Ron guesses. 

“I didn’t lose the war.” Draco says, which has Ron breaking off into amused laughter. “What!”

“You always say that when you lose, but when I lose, the war is over.” 

“Of course it is. Because my victories are decisive!” 

Ron laughs again, and then Draco laughs because he’s laughing, and Ron almost misses the conspiratorial look Zabini and Parkinson give each other, and then Goyle, who looks confused as to why they’re suddenly staring at him. 

The rest of the lunch goes smoothly. It’s surprisingly easy to include them in their conversation, even though a part of him feels a little bit like something sacred has been invaded. At the end of it all, Ron pays for all of their food, though he’s pleasantly surprised when Zabini and Parkinson offer to cover themselves. May as well commit to the bit, he thinks, not batting an eye. Aurors are paid well. He’ll wait until he gets home to bellyache about it.

He orders a slice of blackberry pie to go, and Draco gives him a kiss on the cheek in thanks. Ron’s face feels like it’s tingling for the rest of the day.

**XI.**

The next time Ron meets Draco’s parents, it’s decidedly less funny. 

Narcissa kisses both of his cheeks in greeting, which is something he’s only ever seen her do with Harry, so he instantly feels like an imposter. Lucius only greets him with a cool look and a nod. Ron makes it infinitely worse by blurting out the first thing that comes to mind: “Please don’t disown Draco for giving me the time of day.” 

“ _Ron_.” Draco says, looking seconds away from hexing him. 

“We’d never do anything so drastic. The Weasleys have an impeccable pedigree and you’ve done well for yourself, dear.” Narcissa says, as they get settled at the Malfoys’ unreasonably long dinner table. 

Ron wonders what his grandma would have to say to that.

The Malfoy Manor looks nothing at all like the place they’d been trapped in, all bright colors and soft decoration, none of the high halls and severe darkness of its past. Were it not for the singing feeling of the family magic, still familiar after five years, he’d be half convinced they weren’t in Wiltshire.

“Yes, it is a wonder how your family maintained pure blood until it managed to culminate in its current generation. Well done to your parents,” Lucius says. 

Ron kind of wishes the old codger was still in Azkaban. He can feel Draco squeeze his knee underneath the table, tightly enough for it to hurt, so he swallows the insult that was building in his mouth and croaks out a thank you. 

The second gift of a Pureblood’s courtship has to be presented in front of the parents, to cement the seriousness of the offer. Thankfully, after they all share a bit of small talk thankfully carried by Draco, who Ron suspects could talk for hours to people he truly cares about, Draco’s parents fall into an expectant silence. 

Ron clears his throat. “Right, so. I know you’re not one for accessories aside from your arm bands. But I, er, think about your throat, a lot?” 

Draco gives him that I’m-trying-not-to-laugh-at-you look, all lips pressed thin and those damned dimples. Then he says, “Do you?” As Lucius coughs rudely into a handkerchief. 

“That’s not what I meant to say. I meant that I think it would look nice with a necklace or something and anyway I’ve been working on transfiguring this for a while and I hope you’ll like it and I’d love it if you’d wear it.” Ron is mumbling low enough that Draco has to lean in to hear him, playfully, insistently trying to find his face. It’s nice to catch the flash of his teeth as he huffs out little laughs.

Ron reaches into his pocket, and places a long velvet box on the table. He carefully pulls it open, revealing the delicate line of the choker he’s been working at in the wee hours of the night for a couple of weeks. It’s a delicate thing, made up of interlocking thin strings of platinum, a small dangling emerald in its center. When he’d floated the idea to Hermione, she’d been quick to gather books on transfiguration and the periodic table and molecular structure. It’s the first time in a while that he’d admitted her help was needed and much appreciated, because being Hermione’s friend usually means that she’s going to subject you to her brusque aid whether you want it or not. She’d beamed at him in response. That, and the surprised little look on Draco’s face, made all of the work and the reading completely worth it.

“It’s gorgeous, Ron.” Draco says. 

He darts a glance at his parents, and Ron is too nervous to even follow his gaze, no matter how much he wants to. Then, clearing his throat, he scoots his chair closer to Ron’s, and then turns around in his chair, presenting the back of his neck. Ron’s briefly distracted by the wisps of bright hair along the nape of his neck, and the surprise freckles dotting pale skin. Gulping, Ron gently brushes his ponytail aside, and lifts the choker over his head, dragging it slowly over the collarbones he can’t stop staring at, and then up the long line of his neck, clasping it into place. He gives in to the brief, foolish urge to run the back of his hand along Draco’s jaw. Draco follows the movement with a sigh, and then he turns back around to face Ron, giving him a shy smile that Ron has never seen on his face before. 

And Ron thinks, Oh no.

**XII.**

Things change again after that, and Ron’s not sure if he likes it.

Draco is smiling when he informs Ron that his parents have given their blessing for the courtship to continue, but the smile doesn’t have any of his usual humor. He wears Ron’s choker everywhere, and brags about it every chance he gets (Him calling Ron “my gentleman suitor” makes the news, and it has Ron chuckling enough to frame the article in his office. Justin frowns at it every time he sees it). They still get lunch together, sometimes as alone as they can be, sometimes in the raucous cafeteria with Harry and Hermione, and sometimes with Draco’s awful (but not that awful) friends in tow. They still play chess, they still talk, and sometimes absently floo call each other for hours into the night. 

But there’s this hesitance, and Ron’s not sure who is worse about it. Ron misses Draco’s huffy hands in his hair, or the absent charms that straighten his robes and tighten his ties at Ministry functions. Draco doesn’t hit him with that damned notebook anymore, and there are no arm or shoulder squeezes. And when they apparate, Ron doesn’t offer his arm anymore. He doesn’t tuck hair behind Draco’s ear and he certainly doesn’t give him playful punches on the shoulder for being called a weasel. Their checkups are entirely clinical--Draco doesn’t bat his hand away because Ron doesn’t reach out to poke at his diagnostic charms, or poke him in the side to distract him. It’s miserable. 

Which is why he’s not expecting being invited into Draco’s flat. This is something he thought he’d have to earn, and he doesn’t think he’s done anything especially great lately. But Draco’s giving him an earnest look when he asks, and Ron feels like he might melt into the floor if he says no.

“What’s the occasion, mate?” Ron asks, when they’ve arrived. 

Draco bends down to take off his boots, a little wobbly without Ron’s arm to steady him. “I thought I would cook you dinner. Unless you aren’t hungry.” 

“You know me. I could always eat.” Ron jokes, weakly. 

Draco acknowledges it with a pained half smile, tells him to get comfortable, and then swans off into the kitchen. If this were a normal day, Ron would make a joke about how he didn’t think Draco would be in a kitchen without finding a way to burn water, but he’s more concerned with observing his flat. It’s sparsely but comfortably decorated, all his furniture plush and lived-in. His walls are decorated with several photos, and Ron feels a pang in his chest when he sees a photo of himself, grinning dozily up at the camera from his paper-covered desk. It’s an old picture from a Daily Prophet article now years passed, he’d been appointed as a junior Auror, tired and fresh off of his examinations.

He sees several other photos and memorabilia. Draco’s healer certification is framed on the wall, as well as his Auror medic certification. Several pictures of his parents smile snootily out at him, standing as still as is possible for magical photos. There’s one of Vincent Crabbe, decked out in his Slytherin robes, laughing uproariously amongst his friends. He looks good, healthy and happy. He can’t be a day over sixteen, which is at least the last time Ron had been aware of him side from that day in the Room of Hidden Things. Ron remembers him as a nasty, unkind person, and shares none of the sentimentality that apparently lead Draco to keep this photo. He moves on. 

There’s a thick, knitted blanket on Draco’s plush settee, and a thick arabesque rug on the floor. Ron’s gaze keeps getting drawn by the staircase leading up to where Draco must sleep, but he doesn’t want to pry. The share stilted conversation for a good few hours, and then Draco comes into the kitchen with ambrosial smelling bangers and mash. He sits criss-cross on the floor in front of his low glass table, and Ron joins him. Their knees brush. 

“Damn, Draco. This is really good. When did you learn to do this?”

Draco’s smile is genuine this time. “After, um. Everything, mother and father had a terrible row about how to move forward. So mother went into her wardrobe, shrunk all her favorite dresses, and freed the house elves one by one. They were distraught, and father was _furious,_ you see, because he’s never so much as stepped into a kitchen in his entire life, and he certainly didn’t know how to do something so plebeian as washing clothes. I was tired of hearing them argue about it, and I didn’t want mother to go outside and risk getting hurt, so I bought some recipe books and got to work. It’s not unlike potions, when you think about it.” 

“That’s really great. Starting to feel like there’s nothing you couldn’t do once you decide you want to do it.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so!” 

Draco smiles, brings one hand up to touch the emerald on his choker like he does sometimes, and then they go back to eating. After they’re done, they play a lazy game of wizard’s chess, which Draco loses with none of his usual fuss, and lapse into silence. With a lazy flick of his wand, he lights a fire in the hearth, lighting himself up in a low golden glow. It makes his eyes shine fetchingly. Again, Ron thinks, Oh no. 

“I have something to tell you.” 

“I have something to tell you.” 

Realizing that they’ve spoken over each other, they share a nervous laugh.

“You first,” Ron urges, because he figures you save the worst for last. (A voice that sounds suspiciously like Hermione’s tells him he’s got it all wrong.)

Draco breathes in. “I think we should consider putting a stop to this.” 

“What’s ‘this?’” Ron asks, feeling his stomach drop. 

Draco waves a hand in the air between them, a severe frown on his face. “This ‘courtship,’ Ron.” 

“Did you convince your parents to leave you alone, then?” 

Draco opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it. Then, the cogs visibly churning in his head, he says, “No. I was just thinking about everything you’ve been doing. I feel like I might be taking advantage of you.” 

“You’re not! I signed up for this, remember? Draco, I’m doing this for you.” 

Draco slams his palm down onto the table, shocking Ron into silence. “That’s the problem, Ron. These kinds of things should mean something.” 

“It _does_ mean something.” Ron says, at length. He feels an inordinate amount of hurt.

Draco scoffs. “Not that our houses matter that much anymore, but you allowing yourself to be ripped apart by the press so I can avoid my fate is a terribly Gryffindor thing to do.” 

“And that’s so bad?” 

“It’s foolish. And dishonest.” 

Ron swallows. “Okay. Yeah, I get it.” 

Draco nods, somehow looking even more sullen about the whole thing. He rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “What did you want to tell me?” 

Ron stands up and stuffs his hands into his heavy pockets. “I have a long field placement coming up. It’s gonna be taking me to the continent, and that’s about all I can tell you, before you ask. I was going to tell you that I was planning on sending the next gift in some big, crazy way, so everybody could know I would still be thinking about you. Because I will be.” 

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that anymore--” Draco begins, before pausing, as Ron’s word’s catch up to him. “You what?” 

“Yeah,” Ron says, working through it when he can hear his voice on the edge of breaking again. “Yeah, I will be. I like you, Draco. A lot. I wouldn’t be doing half of this if I didn’t. And I love my friends, but I don’t do stuff like this for them. And if you can’t see that, you either like stringing me along, or you’re blind. Not sure which is worse. I hope we can still be friends, but I can’t talk to you right now.” 

Draco is gaping up at him. Ron scrambles for the fireplace and cups a handful of floo powder, his hands trembling. Draco calls his name, sounding so upset that Ron just shakes his head, knowing that if he looks back, he won’t commit to leaving. 

“The Weasley Burrow,” he says, thankful that Mum had configured the wards to allow a visit. 

He steps through the flames, Draco calling after him. Dad is sitting by the fireplace, and gives a little shout of alarm as Ron bursts through, shaking. 

“Ron? What’s wrong?” 

“Hmm,” is all Ron says, horrified that he can feel some tears springing to his eyes. 

Dad gets a good look at his face, then stands up and bundles him into a tight hug, patting his back as Ron rests his head on his shoulder. 

“There, there, lad. It can’t be so bad as that, now. It’s alright!” Dad croons. 

It occurs to Ron that he hasn’t been soothed by one of his parents in quite some time. A little while after the war, it was like all of the tears left in his body had dried up, replaced by the occasional bout of numbness or frustration. He’d fueled it into his work, in building a life for himself outside of being Harry Potter’s Best Friend or The Idiot Who Let Hermione Granger Get Away. He’d worked hard, sometimes he found someone who’d take him to bed and whisper sweet nothings into his ear for a night or two, and he kept going. Ron left his days of lingering in a feeling behind in school. It feels ugly to return to it, somehow, like he’s shaved a few years off. 

“It’s bad,” Ron lets himself say, hugging Dad as tight as he dares. 

They stand that way for a while. When Ron detaches himself from Dad, he’s not especially surprised to see Mum standing behind them with her hands on her hips, her eyes wet with tears. 

“Did that boy break your heart?” She demands. 

“Maybe a little bit.” He says. 

“Then he doesn’t deserve you!” 

“It’s not like that, Mum!” 

And then he tells them everything. The slugs, and their friendship, with the senior Auror just behind. Lunch and sweets and games of chess, and passing notes, and late-night talks at the floo. He talks about Draco’s fear and the mean looks they get sometimes. He talks about how sometimes he thinks Oh no.

“I’m a good friend,” he keeps saying. 

“Oh, sweetheart. You deserve to be more than a just a good friend.” Mum tells him, looking tired.

Dad pipes in. “And for what it’s worth, Ciaran is an old friend. He tells me about how you two are doing sometimes, and said he didn’t think he’d ever live to see the day Draco Malfoy was smitten with someone.” 

Ron blinks at him. “Who the hell is Ciaran?” 

“Ciaran? Malfoy’s parole officer? Blimey, Ron, you’ve been around the man for almost a year and you didn’t know his name?” Dad asks. “You really are in love!” 

Ron flinches. “Don’t say that!” 

“You are! And I think you should do something about it! If he still rejects you, well then, he wasn’t worth it!” Dad says, like it’s that simple. Behind him, Mum is nodding in agreeance. 

Ron has always envied the way they just will good things into existence. It’s their own special kind of magic. He wipes his eyes and goes, “Yeah, okay. I’ll do something about it.” 

And then he doesn’t. 

Auror Horan catches sight of him when he comes in for the briefing the next day, and Ron makes it very clear that he’s avoiding him, practically sprinting to the meeting rooms. Harry stares at him the entire time. 

“Got something on my face?” Ron whispers. 

“Yeah, regret,” Harry whispers back, frank as ever. 

He obviously didn’t mean it as a joke, but it’s true, and Ron just shakes his head through a dark chuckle. 

“Malfoy came looking for you earlier. He gave me this.” 

Harry presses a neatly folded piece of paper into Ron’s hand. Ron stares down at it for the rest of the meeting, retaining very little of what was said. He waits until he gets back into his office to glance at it, expecting a succinct end to their friendship. But all it says is, 

_Ron,_

_I am sorry for my behavior last night. I have something to tell you that I would rather say in person. Would you please stop by when you’re free?_

_Yours,_

_Draco Malfoy_

The sign off all but taunts him. Ron folds the note into his pocket. He does not stop by. The next day, he and Justin choose a portkey and are whisked away to the continent. 

**XIII.**

The mission is a long and tedious one. 

After the war, scattered sympathizers of Voldemort had a habit of building popularity in little pockets and then dispersing once too many eyes were on them. They’d set up their networks of travel and message exchange like a tree’s root system, reaching into far and dark places in the wizarding and muggle worlds.

Sometimes the direct approach doesn’t work. Sometimes it takes recon, polyjuice downed through gritted teeth and temporary wands that don’t respond quite as well as the one that is really yours, and courting flighty contacts. This mission takes him and Justin through the underground of wizarding Italy, top to bottom, through waterways and cobblestone streets. Ron endures the flooding of Venice and the bustle of Rome, the harsh sunlight of Tuscony and the fragrant lemon farms of Sorrento. Sometimes they get shouted at in incomprehensible Italian for ruining someone’s shop on a chase, and other times they spend hours methodically undoing layers of curses created to protect records and items from prying eyes. Justin is begrudgingly grateful for Ron’s newfound interest in curse breaking. It’s not infallible, but it gets them a lot of evidence much quicker than they might have found on another trip like this. 

They’re a month into the network crawl when Ron allows himself to think about Draco again. They’re taking a break in a small wizarding cafe, and Ron can see that there’s a robe shop across the street from them, probably the kind of place that’s so expensive they don’t even display prices. Justin is baffled when Ron walks over, eyes drawn to a gorgeous piece. It’s a dark robe that practically sparkles in the moonlight, decorated with lazily shifting patterns of glittering turquoise blue. He looks closer, and can see that the waves are gems, sewn carefully into the deep navy fabric, spelled to travel along the hem, sleeves, and high collar.

It’s a gorgeous piece. Probably exorbitantly expensive. The exact kind of thing Ron would love to see him in. He bursts in. It takes a lot of messy pantomiming before the attendant calls for an assistant, who thankfully speaks English. She patiently runs him through an approximation of Draco’s measurements, gives him a pitying look when he admits it’s for someone who he might have ruined his chances with, and convinces her boss to give him a discount. The cost still crests well into the thousands of galleons.

“Do you know where I might be able to deliver internationally?”

She gives him instructions. Then she smiles at him and says, “Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” Ron says, “I need it.” 

Because Ron’s not stupid. Draco would be well within his rights to throw this away. Ron doesn’t even know if doing this is a good idea. He could be doing this for nothing--for all he knows, Draco was calling him in to let him down gently. 

But he gets a nice box, and folds the robes up as best as he knows how. He compares the time difference and asks the attendant to spell it to deliver at a very specific time. Lunch, where hopefully Draco will be eating with someone, so he can know there’s intent behind it.

_Draco,_

_If you hate me now, I understand. If you’re just mad at me, I hope you’ll like these. When I get back, let’s have that talk._

_Yours,_

_Ron Weasley_

There’s no way Draco can reply (it’d be foolhardy to keep some traceable address on a mission like this), but he dreams about what Draco might say. How he reacted. He dreams about him slipping the robes on and running his hands covetously down the silky fabric, the light bumps of the gems sliding underneath his hands. 

When they finally get called back, Ron’s got his head in the clouds, finally resting easy after two months of work well done. Just like all that time ago, he doesn’t recognize the sudden violent surge of magic coming his way. Not until Justin calls out for him, shouting a frantic counterhex over their shoulder as the world rotates wildly. It’s not like the day he was splinched, out there on the run those years ago, but it’s close: he can feel his magic frantically reaching to repair his exposed flesh as the notoriously gut-wrenching magic of the portkey systematically undoes it, and by the time they arrive back in the ministry, Ron’s clutching his chest like maybe that can hold all of the blood in. 

“Oh, bullocks,” he gasps out. 

All of the coworkers waiting to see them back gasp at the sight of them. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” Justin barks. “We got spotted on the way back!” 

“Here, I’m here. Move, you oaf! Merlin, you’re all in the way!”

Ron can hear Draco hissing pure fire at everyone between them, and he has energy enough to laugh. 

“Oh, funny, is it, Weaselbee? You get hit with a compound hex mid-portkey and you have time to laugh?” Draco demands, as he approaches, already rolling up his sleeves. 

“No, I’m just happy you were here waiting for me.” 

“Of course I was waiting for you. Now shut up,” He snaps, gently forcing him down onto his back. 

As Draco’s familiar magic washes over him, he hears something about transport and St. Mungo’s and dittany, and blacks out. 

  
  


**XIV.**

When he wakes up, Harry and Hermione are sitting on either side of his bed. 

Hermione is the first to realize he’s awake. She bursts into relieved tears, leaning down to rest her forehead against his arm. Harry does the same with his other arm, letting out a sigh of relief. 

“Hey! Guys, please, it hurts. Back off,” he hisses. 

They dart back up. Ron gives them a minute of penance before he bursts out laughing. Their faces darken. Draco’s awful sense of humor is contagious. 

“If you weren’t covered in bandages, I’d give you a good wallop.” Harry confesses, which just makes Ron laugh harder. 

His laugh trails off into a pained cough, and there’s an odd tickle in his chest. Hermione immediately reaches for the cup of water at his bedside, helping him drink. Once he’s had his fill, he gives them a relieved little smile. “Oops.” 

Hermione takes off to find the nurse on duty. Harry smiles down at him. “How are you feeling, Ron?” 

“Like garbage, mate! Glad I’m here, though.” 

“Me too. Don’t ever do that again.” Harry says, but it’s weak. They both know they can’t promise not to get hurt with a job like theirs. 

“I’ll be more careful next time.” He allows. 

He wants nothing more than to lean up and hug Harry right now, but then the doors swing open, and a lovely nurse walks in, and then Draco is following, looking about as anxious as Ron has ever seen him. 

“Draco,” Ron says, pleased. 

“Shut up! I am very upset with you, Ronald Weasley!” Draco hisses. 

Hermione nods. “Me, too.” 

Ron laughs at their united front. Draco gently guides the nurse through the motions of checking up on him. She must be learning, because Draco occasionally praises her, or tells her to be a little gentler, patient and knowledgeable. In contrast, he’s crazily rude to Ron. Breathing well, Weaselbee? Any pain, idiot? Hungry? That’s too bad, he’ll have to wait. It’s everything he’s been missing. At the end of it all, Draco briefly cups his cheek, nods at Harry and Hermione, and then leaves in a swirl of robes. 

“Just look at those cow eyes, Merlin,” Harry chuckles. 

For the first time since he woke up, Hermione breaks into a little smile, ducking her head down. “Isn’t it just pathetic?” 

“The worst,” Harry agrees. 

“Shut up, I’m in love,” Ron grumbles. 

Then he freezes, and covers his face with his blankets as his friends crow loudly at him. 

“We were there, when he got your robes, you know.” Hermione adds. 

The thought that some of the most important people in his life were eating together without him fills his bruised chest with warmth. 

“Did he like it?” Ron asks, hoping she can understand his muffled words. 

She giggles. “He loved it. I could tell. He started at it for the rest of lunch.” 

“He was hopping mad at you, though. Couldn’t understand why you left without saying anything.” Harry adds. 

“We had a fight,” Ron explains, miserable. 

“Now _I_ want to hit you!” Hermione cries. “Ronald, you apologize the next time you see him!” 

“You think that’s not the plan, if his parents don’t try to set me on fire?”

At this, he can hear them sigh. They’re probably giving each other the Friend Look. Then they pat his knees, commiserating. 

Harry says, “He got permission to be the one to look after you. So for what it’s worth, your foot’s in the door.”

His recovery is slow going. Whatever hex the sympathizer had used on him had been some compound of well-known and homebrewed cutting curses. Nasty stuff. Day in and day out, Draco visits, sometimes undoing Ron’s bandages and running diagnostics, and patiently undoing stubborn networks of little curses, murmuring through the theory of it all for Ron’s educational benefit. He finishes it up with a few drops of dittany, not wanting to rush the recovery of such a delicate injury. Ron catches Draco’s gaze lingering appreciatively on his abdomen more than once, but when he tries to preen, Draco flushes and smacks him upside the head. 

Each time Ron tries to talk to him about what happened, Draco shuts him down with an unamused frown. The one time Ron tries to press the issue, he _puts him to sleep_ with an unfairly powerful nonverbal spell. Healers can be horrible.

Every single one of Ron’s living siblings visit him, offering their condolences and what scattered news they have to share. Ginny’s doing amazing with Quidditch. Bill’s particularly fascinated by his recent fascination with cursebreaking, and even stops to have a conversation with Draco about it that’s so heavy with jargon that it makes Ron’s eyes cross. Charlie teases him. Percy’s wife is pregnant, the poor woman. How will she ever be free of him? George tells him that if he ever tires of near death experiences, there’s a place for him at the shop. Ron doesn’t take him up on the offer, but he keeps it in the back of his mind.

Mum brings pastries for him and Draco, who blushes horribly but can’t hide just how much he wants to eat them. Dad solemnly gives them his blessing.

When it’s time for him to be discharged, Mum and Dad watch as Draco patiently helps him get ready, and share a knowing look when Draco asks if he’s alright with their sun coming him with him. Ron isn’t sure if he’s grateful or if he feels like he’s being offered up on a platter. But it’s uneventful. They floo to Draco’s flat. Draco helps him up the stairs he’d glanced at longingly all those days ago. He puts Ron in his bed and sleeps downstairs. In the morning, Ron wakes him up with a kiss on the cheek.

**XV.**

“Now that you’re finally listening to me. I like you, too.” Draco says, clasping his hands together in front of him.

“Then why’d you say all that, then?” 

“I thought you didn’t.” 

Ron punches him on the shoulder. Draco punches him back. They laugh. 

They’re on their way to the Burrow. Draco’s parole had ended sometime during Ron’s trip, and the evidence of time passed once again is baffling to Ron. Draco’s wearing muggle clothes, which Ron wasn’t sure he knew existed, and he looks stupidly fit in his slacks and sweater vest. Ron reaches out for his hand, and smiles widely when Draco laces their fingers together.

“I didn’t think I was good enough for you.” Draco admits, after they’ve enjoyed the walk up to the house with their hands swinging between them. 

“That’s funny. I thought something like that, too.” Ron says.

“We’ve got to work on that, don’t we?” 

“Yeah. I don’t really wanna go through that again.” 

Thankfully, it’s just Mum and Dad home, and they’re perfectly polite as they set the table and ask Draco about how he’s been. He’s proud of his work, of his cooking (Mum’s eyes light up when Ron loudly endorses it), of Ron. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, I wanted to thank you, for sharing your son with me. He’s very annoying, but I like him just fine.” Draco says. 

Dad laughs, and Mum just tuts and shakes her head, and Ron feels like everything is okay. 

They experience more changes, but they’re nice ones: 

Ron pulls the plug and takes Draco and his friends out to eat, in wizarding London this time, the arm around Draco’s waist a declaration. The Prophet that week reads: FINAL NAIL IN COFFIN: GOLDEN TRIO’S WEASLEY COMMITTING TO UNWISE MALFOY COURTSHIP BID. 

He convinces Draco to fly with him, just for the leisure of it, and they spend hours in the sky, Draco holding tightly to his waist, hair wild in the wind. 

The notes start up again, though this time Draco spells the paper into little birds or slithering snakes or skittering mice. He’d always been talented at charms. Ron just carries his on foot so he has an excuse to get a kiss. All the medics start groaning when they see him coming round. Ron asks what he's always writing in that notepad of his and is pleasantly surprised to find that it's a memoir. Draco promises he'll be the first to read it when it's done.

They kiss sometimes, and it’s amazing. Neither of them are blushing virgins, but Ron was surprised to learn how little experience Draco has, and especially surprised with how happy he is to let Ron take the lead. Draco is not a person who likes to let others make decisions on his behalf. He’s got two or three things on his mind at any given time, and it's likely that he’s chosen what he wants to do about all of them before he ever says anything. But the first time they kiss, really kiss, with tongue and wandering hands, he lets out a dreamy little sigh as Ron pushes him back onto his couch and Ron thinks he might be able to hammer glass if they keep it up. 

Draco’s terribly pale. Any long amount of time in the sun and he freckles just a little bit, and those freckles look amazing with hickies and marks. Some of them Draco can hide with his choker. Others he just leaves alone with a coy shrug and an eye roll, though he does start wearing his robes all the way up. Ron is obsessed with his collarbones. 

One night, Draco invites him home and orders him to wait downstairs. Then he descends the stairs in the robes Ron bought in Italy, an intent look on his face. Ron watches in spellbound silence as he rounds the back of the couch, and then he’s tipping forward and bundling those robes up, up, up those endless legs, until they’re bunching around creamy thighs. Then he climbs into Ron’s lap, snickering when Ron lets out a whimper of desire.

“Hello. You can touch me, you know.” Draco whispers, tilting Ron’s head up for a kiss that has Ron’s toes curling in his work boots.

When Ron doesn’t move, Draco sighs into the kiss and grabs his hands, deliberately placing Ron’s hands underneath his robes, right on the sinful curve of his bottom. He sighs when he feels Ron’s hands on his skin, and sucks Ron’s bottom lip into his mouth. Ron surges up into the kiss, pulling him close, groaning when he rocks his hips down into a sensuous grind. 

“Bloody hell, what have I done to deserve this?” He gasps out, as Draco trails little butterfly kisses against his jaw, and then down his neck, nipping here and there.

“It’s more like I’m tired of waiting for you to make the first move.” Draco says, words warm against his skin. Then he pulls back. “Do you not want to…? I thought you wouldn’t care, you know, about the rule. What mother and father don’t know won’t hurt them, either--” 

Ron quiets what undoubtedly was going to turn into both of them psyching themselves out. “It’s impossible for me to care less about what your stuffy parents would want. Please don’t ever talk about them when we’re about to shag, ever again.” Ron says, as seriously as he can manage. 

He swallows Draco’s answering laugh with a kiss, and then lets out an obscene groan when he finds Draco slick and prepared when his fingers explore between his cheeks. Draco undoes Ron's fly and rides him for what feels like hours, and they kiss lazily the whole time, intoxicated with each other. When Draco shudders apart in his arms, Ron feels like he might be holding a fallen star in his arms.

**XVI.**

Ron’s not one for pomp and circumstance, despite how much of it had to go into getting here, but their marriage comes after a few more months of gifts and dates and late nights exploring each other. It's perfectly anticlimactic, and he loves it. They coordinate a couple weeks of leave, and then bustle into the office of contracts in the Ministry and draw up a marriage contract, with a teary eyed Auror Horan there as their only witness. Knowing good and well that the giggly witch officiating their documents will share the news with the rest of Britain probably before the day is out, they plan to get their portkey for Montpelier directly after.

Their vows are more like a set of warnings.

“I’m not living in that Manor, ever. I don’t care how good your mum is at decorating.” 

“That’s fair. I do want kids, but I may kill you if you ask me to carry, Ron Weasley. We’ll see a healer about other options.” 

“I’m not hyphenating.” 

“That’s fine, I’ll take your name. It’ll make father mad. I’m not quitting my job for you.” 

“Me either. Might be a different job soon, though. Ready to lose all that prestige?”

“Not at all. I like my flat, and I won’t move in with you.” 

“I’ll pack my things. I’m not gonna let you walk all over me.” 

“Whatever you say. Don’t ever leave me without saying goodbye first, or it’s over.” 

“Same to you.” 

“If you don’t buy me a nice ring, there will be hell to pay.” 

“Get me something shiny, too, then.”

Their kiss is decidedly chaste, considering the things they’ve gotten up to, but it somehow feels like the most romantic thing Ron has ever experienced. 

“Oh,” Draco says, as they part, squeezing Ron’s hands. “I love you. Sorry, I know it’s terribly inconvenient.” 

Ron laughs in his face. “I love you, too. You’re stuck with me!” 

Auror Horan leads them out of the office, throwing his arms over their shoulders. “You two are some of the most irritating buggers I’ve ever had to put up with. I’m retiring. Visit me sometime.” 

Then he leaves them there in the corridor, wiping at his eyes.

Draco wraps his arms around Ron's neck. “Well, husband mine. Are you ready to upset French people with your terrible accent?” 

Ron grins at him. “Only if you’re there to translate their insults.” 

Draco fiddles with his choker, and then presses his forehead into Ron’s. They stand that way for a good few minutes, breathing each other’s air.

Ron’s a good friend, yeah, and a hard worker when it counts. That’s been his m.o. for years. He’s grateful for the chance to be something entirely new.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pleasantly surprised at the reception this got, so I wrote a follow-up. Thank you all for your kind words!

**I.**

Mother doesn’t get angry. She gets disappointed. She makes faces. She sits in silence and will not be the first to speak. Draco feels a wretched guilt when he returns from his honeymoon and she stares at him with mournful eyes, sipping quietly at her tea as they sit together in her parlor. Draco fidgets like a child for a good twenty minutes. He does not like that he upset her, but he doesn’t regret his actions, so it seems they are at an impasse.

Mother surprises him by clearing her throat and saying, “Your freckles are lovely, dear.”

It’s an olive branch. Draco reaches out for the tray of tarts before them and snags one filled with lemon custard. “Ron thinks so, too.” 

She puts her cup down and frowns at him. “You might have told me first.”

“We just wanted to enjoy each other.”

“I wanted to plan your wedding--”

Draco groans. “Mother…”

“You will not interrupt me, Draco.” She waits until he closes his mouth to continue. “I wanted to plan your wedding, but I suppose it makes sense that you wanted a little time with your husband. You two were all over the papers.”

Draco deflates with relief. He nibbles at his tart. “Exactly that.”

“Where did you go?”

“The beach house in Montpellier.”

“Excellent choice. Did he treat you well?”

“Yes.” Draco says, injecting all of his feelings into the word. 

Mother reaches out and takes his hand. Finally, she smiles over at him. That’s more than enough.

**II.**

He’s given a new medic badge. Draco Weasley, it says, there above his identification number. He’s so proud to have it that he spends a few moments staring at it in a bathroom mirror. The mirror glibly informs him that the name is not going to fall off if he takes eyes off it, which is embarrassing and horrible because there are other Ministry employees in the washroom who titter at the announcement.

But, later, when Ron stops by to collect him for lunch, he also sees the badge, and a terribly goofy smile crosses his face at the sight of it.

“Proud to stake your claim, Weaselbee?” Draco drawls, smiling nonetheless as Ron slips an arm around his waist in a brief hug.

“Stuff it,” Ron says, affectionately. 

Draco leans up to kiss to the underside of his jaw.

**III.**

Ron moving in spells change. Some of it is welcome, while some of it isn’t. 

Some of Ron’s garish decorations clash with Draco’s carefully planned ones. Quidditch posters and chaotic photos and cherished letters find their way onto Draco’s walls, standing out starkly against the warm colors. They have their first real fight over this, because this is Draco’s space and has been for some time, and he doesn’t want Ron to feel like he’s a hanger on, but it feels like an encroachment. They shout and throw things until one of Draco’s neighbors (an older witch who’d been horrified to learn Draco moved in) knocks at the door and calmly threatens to call the authorities. Ron says, “I _am_ the authorities!” and then brandishes his Auror badge, and then the anger is diffused when they laugh at the way the neighbor blanched.

“We should get a house,” Ron suggests, “make it our own.”

“I love it here.” Draco protests, sad at the thought of it. “I worked hard to earn this apartment. I didn’t use any of mother and father’s money.”

Ron softens. They sit down at the living room table and draw up tentative, long-term plans. They’ll discuss how they’ll display their belongings. Draco knows they can’t stay here forever, especially if they want children, but it feels like a loss. "Cross that bridge when we get to it," Ron says, gently.

Another frustrating change is the fact that all of Ron’s (many) friends seem to think they have blanket permission to stick their heads through his Floo, or worse, attune to the wards and walk through it. Draco is truly and honestly civil with Potter and Granger, but his own friends would never dare visit without a warning first. That is more Mother and Father's habit, and he knows he can't stop them, so he's prepared for it. He's not prepared for Thomas and Finnegan’s chattering, for Longbottom’s wry, newfound presumptuousness, for Lovegood’s hazy but pointed questions. Thankfully, it only takes one tired complaint for Ron to flush in embarrassment and fix the problem right away.

“Sorry, mate. It’s just that, after everything--it’s easier to just be available. But they get it. You’ve had a rough few years.”

Draco isn’t sure what endears him more about this: the fact that they are married and Ron still speak to him like they’re schoolyard pals, the sweetness of his honesty, or the gentle acknowledgement of how he’d had to climb his way back up from the bottom. Draco pulls him down for a deep kiss and cannot be dissuaded from clinging to his neck, not that Ron minds at all.

The wonder of having someone to come home to makes it worth it, though. After Ron announced his intention to resign from the Auror department in six month’s time, Robards kindly relegated him to reduced hours. 

Ron snores in his sleep and stumbles around and is so tall that he has to duck his head in some of Draco’s doorways. He keeps a muggle toothbrush. He’s horrible about his laundry and smiles widely when Draco does it for him. Growing up under Molly Weasley’s thumb ensures that he’s a deft hand at house cleaning charms, so he does spot cleaning with the semi-regularity of habit, grumbling the whole way. He eats with his mouth open, but he makes up for it by setting the table and clearing it, shooing Draco away as he does. He complains about the bed being too small, but puts up a huge fuss about spelling it larger or buying a new one, because he loves holding Draco at night even if it means they wake up sweaty and cranky. 

Sometimes he wakes early and irons Draco’s clothes unthinkingly, sleepy and bleary eyed inside a cloud of steam as he bends over the board in the mornings. Then he’ll kiss Draco goodbye, tasting of that dreadful fake mint paste, fall face-first into their cramped bed, and go right back to sleep. He’s a gangly, ginger-headed mess of contradictions. Draco loves him so much.

**IV.**

There are bad days. For Draco, there are always bad days. There are days when it feels like more eyes than usual are on his back, and more reporters standing outside the Ministry waiting to ambush him, and people he doesn’t know sneering at him. They’d lessened--even someone like him proves something, after all the work and damage control--but marrying Ron sees the worst of it returning with a vengeance. 

Howlers are spelled out of the infirmary, which makes even a high-stress environment like that a new sanctuary, but Draco spends weeks hounded by them in his office, shivering red envelopes shrieking their frustration into the air. His coworkers are kind enough to him, but none of them intervene, staring out of the corner of their eyes as the latest letter demands he report himself for bewitching someone. Others say the usual: that he’s a Death Eater, that he’s opportunistic, that they’re outraged he and his family are not rotting in the North Sea. A part of him knows that he deserves the punishment, so he steels himself, sometimes retreats behind his cauldron to create restorative potions, and gets very good at timely _incendios_ when catching a glimpse of bright red hair.

He’s cradling his temples at the lastest howler--this one, in a refreshing turn of events, is from an anonymous Pureblood disgusted that he’d sully his good name shacking up with a blood traitor--when Granger’s iconic clicking heels meet his ears. He looks up at her, and she scowls with her wand held out. “ _Incendio_ ,” she says, burning the howler mid sentence. And then she turns to the pile of them that are awaiting their turns and burns those, too.

“You will not listen to any more of these, Mal--Draco.” She announces.

He blinks at her. “How did you find out?” 

“One of your coworkers mentioned it to me.”

Draco looks over at them, but they all duck their heads over their desks, unwilling to be drawn into the conversation.

“It’s fine, Granger.” Draco says.

“Call me Hermione,” Granger snaps. “and it isn’t. I’ll do something about it right away.”

By now, he knows not to intercept her when she’s on a tear. “Will you promise not to tell Ron?”

He can see that she wants to protest. But then she breathes in, deep, and nods, curls bouncing. She really is quite beautiful. Not for the first time, Draco wonders how Ron ever left her, and if he regrets it.

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Hermione.”

This earns him a tight smile and a businesslike nod, and then she stomps out of the Medics offices, no doubt on her way back to her own office in the Department of Mysteries. How someone that unabashedly opinionated had ever become an Unspeakable, Draco will never know. Draco stares after her retreat for a good while, his thoughts turning to Ron, no doubt bored to tears by the light duty busy work he’s been assigned. He smiles, and goes back to his own work.

True to Hermione’s word, no more howlers follow. Draco’s coworkers make a point of not bringing the incident up at all.

  
  


**V.**

Ron is sweet in most things, but especially in the bedroom. He constantly asks Draco if he’s comfortable, if he feels good, if he wants more. He tackles learning Draco’s body with the same single-mindedness he does every other task, learning which spots to kiss behind his ear, and which positions work best, and what fantasies to explore.

They christen the bedroom, and then the shower, and several parts of the living room. One day, Ron gently bends him over the kitchen counter and fucks him with his fingers until tears are in his eyes, insistent over his prostate. He daisy-chains orgasm after orgasm, kissing lazily at Draco’s neck. 

Ron doesn’t call him “love” often, but he does when he wants to catch his attention or make him melt, and the refrain of “Just one more, love,” will haunt him in the best of ways. When it gets to be too much, Draco sinks to his knees and takes Ron into his mouth as a reward, savoring the weight and the taste of him, the firm grip in his hair. Ron holds him in place when he comes, making him take it all, and then he pulls Draco back onto his feet and kisses him slowly, seemingly unbothered by his own taste.

Draco walks moony-eyed and giggly into work. A coworker asks him if he’s drunk, and when he stirs in the wrong direction one too many times at the cauldron and destroys a potion at his desk, it leaves him frizzy haired and enraged.

"What's wrong with your hair?" Ron asks, when he comes to pick him up for lunch.

“You’ve sabotaged my career.” Draco tells him, scowling.

His brows furrow in genuine concern, and Draco immediately feels bad. Before Ron can question him, he whispers that he can’t stop thinking about their morning, and Ron may as well be a rooster for the way he puffs up, which is stupid and not at all the desired effect, but still cute.

“What happened?” He asks, laughing.

“I got distracted and ruined a potion because of you!”

Ron snorts, and Draco lets out one little laugh before remembering he’s meant to be angry and fixes his scowl back onto his face.

“Maybe we can both work with George, then, if you get fired.” 

Draco smacks him upside the head. When Draco pouts about the unfairness of it all, Ron patiently smooths his hair down with his hands and pulls it up into a ponytail, murmuring about how he hopes that helps. It doesn’t.

The only thing that does help is squandering their breaks enticing Ron to pulling him into broom closets, or quiet bathrooms, or apparating home so Ron can lay him out on their bed the way he likes, obnoxiously appreciative of the way Draco can bend his legs up to his chest, and take him apart with slow, deep thrusts. He gets this love-struck look on his face when Draco bullies his way on top, and he likes to bend his legs so Draco can rest on them and take his pleasure, bouncing contentedly away as Ron strokes him with a practiced hand. He also likes to pull Draco down and lock him into a tight embrace and plant his feet and rattle his brains loose with these quick, shallow thrusts that have Draco whining embarrassingly into Ron’s skin. (In these moments, Draco kisses where he can reach: Ron’s sweaty hair, or his temple, or sloppily over his eyebrow, which always makes him laugh and whisper, “Alright there, love?” knowing full well he’s fucked the words right out of Draco’s throat.)

**VI.**

Molly has taken a tentative liking to him. They bond over their shared love for Ron, and Draco learns recipes at dinner days in the Burrow, staring over her shoulder. Arthur cheerfully apologize for punching father, and then bellows out a laugh when Draco solemnly responds that he deserved it. And just like that, he’s earned the quiet acceptance of Ron’s parents, but his siblings follow in waves.

Bill is genial and mature, but distant. Charlie hides what he truly feels behind humor, so Draco hasn’t the foggiest where he stands. Percy, who Draco has always found wildly annoying even from a distance, does his best to be civil even through his obvious misgivings. George, who Draco will be seeing more of once Ron starts helping him at the shop, makes a halting effort to be friendly, even through his muted demeanor. Ginny, who Draco spent years calling Girl Weasley in his head, is humorous and direct. Draco can see why Potter is so embarrassingly in love with her. 

Still, there is too much history between the two of them for Draco to ever feel comfortable around her, even though she is kind enough and seems to enjoy that Draco teases Ron relentlessly. Draco just can’t stop looking at her and thinking of Father almost getting her killed. Ron makes sure to sit between the two of them at dinners.

**VII.**

After they’d been released from Azkaban, there’d been a period where Draco was sure his parents would divorce. They argued and fought and yelled. Draco had been angry with them both, angry that they’d brought him into the Dark Lord’s clutches, that they’d made his home a prison, that they’d stood by. Mother hadn’t been able to handle it, shifting her rage and blame onto Father’s shoulders. Father deserved the anger, but Mother hadn’t been able to properly cope with the realization that some of the fault fell on her shoulders, too.

Draco spent some of his years as an apprentice avoiding his parents in his quarters. He’d slowly accepted dinner invitations, told them about his life piecemeal, and thought about forgiveness. Because for the longest time, he’d been sure they were all the family he had left in the world. So recalibrating for them looked like Mother making the decisions that mattered, because Father wasn’t to be trusted, and Father doing his best to speak on his feelings more, and Draco cooking for them and occasionally letting them in on his own terms. They’d been frustrated with him getting a job, quietly inconsolable with him getting a flat so near to a muggle area, and baffled when he’d reneged on the compromise of an eventual marriage with a nice Pureblood girl by suffering the affections of a Weasley.

But Mother, who had always doted on him and doesn't want to lose him, grits her teeth and bears it all with grace. 

Mother begs Ron to call him Narcissa, so he does, shy little smile curling on his lips. Father makes no such offer, which makes it funner when Ron calls him Lucius. The first time it happens, he opens his mouth to protest before shutting it just as quickly, quelled by Mother’s tight grip on his hand. It’s progress.

**VIII.**

It’s not often that either of them can’t make it on their lunch break, but it happens. Sometimes Draco is needed at St. Mungo’s, or he has to advise a junior medic. In the earlier days it might have been that Ron had fieldwork, but now it’s because he’s been put on security detail or has to finish the endless list of cornerstone resignation documents that essentially amount to “But are you _really_ sure?” in wretched legalese.

Draco is missing him terribly on one of these days, when he gets the memo, so he pens a mawkish little note about how upset he is, and how this means extra sweets and Ron worshiping at his feet in penance. It’s Harry Potter who brings the reply black ( _You'll be fine. I really am sorry I can't be there today! I'll make it up to you at home!_ ), rolling his eyes and saying that a couple more hours apart isn’t going to kill them, and to get up because he’s taking Draco to lunch.

Draco’s coworkers call out starry-eyed greetings to Potter, who politely returns them even through obvious discomfort, and waits as Draco packs his things, deliberately slow.

“You’re a brat.” Potter tells him, though it lacks any of the heat of their days at Hogwarts.

Draco scowls anyway. “Shut it, Potter.”

“I think that’s part of why Ron li--loves you so much,” Potter continues, as if he hadn’t heard Draco at all. “I didn’t get it at first. I really didn’t get what he sees in you. Still don’t, sometimes.”

Feeling genuinely stung, Draco tamps down on the urge to stamp his foot as he slows down. “You don’t have to do this, Potter. I know there’s no love lost between us. Ron adores you, and I promise I won’t get between the two of you. But I think it’s fair if I’ll beg off hearing you insult me the entire lunch hour.”

Potter winces. “Wait. Malfoy--“

“Weasley,” Draco informs him, a corrective habit he’s been steadily building.

Potter sighs. And then he gives Draco one of those uncomfortably piercing looks, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Let me start over. I should have lead with what I was going to say: I think you’re good for him. If there’s anything Ginny has taught me, there’s more to a relationship than just making someone feel special, but you _do_ make Ron feel special. It’s nice. He complained about you complaining, but you know what he did with your note? He folded it back the way you made it and put it into his pocket.”

“Oh,” Draco says, feeling some of the tightness leaving his shoulders.

“Yeah, oh. Look, I wouldn’t be doing this if Ron hadn’t asked me to. We still don’t have to. But he didn’t want you to feel lonely and I was free. We don’t have to talk.”

It’s reflexive for Draco to say, “Ah, all the better, then!” but what is new is the way Potter just laughs. It’s an infectious, breathy noise, and Draco finds himself turning his head so he doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile.

“Listen,” and here Potter pauses, before testing the waters with, “Weasley,” which makes Draco nod imperiously, “I want this to work out. Ron is one of the most important people in the world to me. He’s the first friend I ever made. I know him. He really, really loves you.”

“I love him, too. Just so you know. So much that it gets distracting and annoying. I’ve told him that he owes me marital reparations for it.”

“What are marital reparations? Is that some Pureblood thing?” 

“Never you mind, Potter.”

It earns him another eye roll, but then Potter is holding a hand out, and they apparate to Draco’s favorite muggle restaurant, where Ron had once haltingly convinced the owners that they were all men of the cloth, of the “Angly-Ken Church,” and that’s why they all wear robes. Draco cracks up at the memory of it, and relays it to Potter, who snickers and vows never to let him live it down. 

There’s a part of Draco that will always be hurt that Harry Potter hadn’t shaken his hand. There’s a new one that is happy for second chances.

**IX.**

Pansy makes a show of being disgusted by Draco’s new marriage. If he didn’t know her any better, he’d tease her quite unkindly for the obvious jealousy that colors some of her more creative insults. Instead he pretends he doesn’t notice, right along with Blaise, that she’s taken to staring longingly at Greg’s biceps.

“So good to see you away from that red-headed terror, darling.” Pansy sniffs, as Greg lumbers off to the bathroom of the hole-in-the-wall wizarding bar they’ve found themselves in. (Greg doesn’t like it when Pansy insults Ron, who is “an alright sort” in his eyes.)

“I thought we’d never tear you away from your Weasel, Draco,” Blaise hums in agreement, holding up a hand for the barkeep.

He orders them another round of firewhiskey. Draco waits until they’re alone before shoving him in the arm.

“Only I get to call him that.” He hisses.

“My apologies,” Blaise says, not sounding apologetic at all.

When Greg returns from the bathroom, Pansy scoots back against the wall, obviously delighted to share a booth with him. Even if she weren’t smitten, Greg is an amazing source of heat.

“So how’s Ron?” Greg asks, as the other two groan.

“Excellent, Greg, thank you,” Draco beams, “he sends his regards.”

The four of them get well and truly pissed as the night goes on, sharing the latest gossip. Draco’s friends are eager to pass along the Pureblood whisperings. As Draco suspected from the not especially rare howler from some Sacred 28 member or another, they’re baffled at his choice. Some wives have apparently been accosting Mother at get togethers, which makes Draco’s nostrils flare with irritation, because hadn’t half of them distanced themselves from her after the war for some reason or another? 

Greg snorts as he recounts the way Father had tightly smiled his way through one of these gatherings, had said, “At least we will have a Pureblooded heir,” only for a dramatic Lucinda Burke to cry out, “A Malfoy heir, with red hair? By Salazar,” and Greg’s piping imitation of her is spot on enough even through his deep voice that it has them all helpless with laughter.

Draco passed along what he’s heard in the Ministry. Granger is a shoo-in for Minister one day. The Wizengamot is considering a restructuring of its seats, to allow places for muggle-born wizards. The Aurors have been following a string of murders near Hogsmeade, to limited success.

It feels good, this. Like they’re children again, proud and straight backed in their silver and green robes. Not for the first time, Draco feels a pang of regret at the thought of Vince, lost to all those flames. Would he be like then, if he’d been allowed to live? Calmer, worldlier, stripping some of their parents’ indoctrination? Saddened by the thought, Draco downs the rest of his drink and demands that Blaise treat them to a round of wine to soothe the burn.

He’s far too sloshed to apparate home by the time they're done, so Pansy steadies him as he dips his head through one of the bar’s floos to call out for Ron.

“Draco! You alright?” Ron asks. He sprawled out over their couch.

“I love you. I’m drunk. I’m coming home now.” Draco says. Order of importance.

“I love you too, mate. Come on through.” Ron says, laughing.

“I’m lucky to have you and you look nice in those shorts.”

“Come on through, Draco.” Ron says again, gentler this time.

Draco pops out to tell his friends goodbye, steadily ignoring their various degrees of amusement, and goes home. He kicks off his shoes and climbs on Ron’s lap, nuzzling into his neck. They sit that way for a while, before Ron gently coaxes him into downing a cup of water, and then takes him to the shower. He undresses Draco with patience, pointedly ignoring his salacious propositions, then gets naked too, though he spends the whole time cleaning Draco up. 

Draco is woozy and sleepy by the time they’re done, not fighting the drying charm on his hair or the brisk rubdown with one of Ron’s rough old towels, and then they snuggle up on their too-small bed and go to sleep.

His hangover is brutal in the morning, but Ron had risen early to beg his mother for an especially hearty breakfast, and then firmly called a day off for both of them. Ron holds his free hand as he eats, and they talk quietly of any and everything. After catching him wincing and covering his eyes, Ron angles himself so that the light coming in from the window doesn’t hit Draco directly in the face. A light, golden glow has burst forth around his hair and broad figure.

Ron doesn’t have any of the coveted Pureblood features. His eyes are a lovely blue, but he freckles and tans easy as anything, and has a wide mouth that Draco remembers making fun of as a child. His cheekbones are not especially pronounced, and he has a habit of counterbalancing his considerable height with slouching shoulders and hands in pockets. His posture had been the first thing Mother complained about when Draco haltingly suggested they might be courting.

“What is it, love?” Ron whispers, after he catches Draco staring for the fourth time.

Draco smiles. “I just like looking at you.” 

**X.**

Ever since his fit over lunch, Ron sends one of his silly friends Draco’s way when he can’t make it. Draco dreads the lunches with Hermione the most, because she always has something to say, and Draco worries that all of his answers are unimpressive. 

She’s fascinated by the ins and outs of Pureblood society, and her frank commentary on which traditions are interesting and which are stupid is entertaining. Marriage contracts from young ages, she says, are counterproductive, because how will you know if two people are suitable before they even start forming their own personalities? What if they hate each other?

“You have a child anyway, choose which quarters of the house you like most, and have your affairs in private,” Draco answers, unsure of what any other solution could be.

“That’s dreadful, Draco.” She says, patiently slow, as if he’s not very smart. 

“Is it.” He says, being purposely obtuse because he’s frustrated.

But she’s charmed by the ostentatious display of public courting. She’d been there to admire Ron’s gift of robes, and some of the gifts that followed once they’d decided to give it a real go. 

“Is there any reason for that?” She asks.

Draco nibbles at his thumb, humming in thought. “Well, it’s an exercise in familiarity, isn’t it? It’s meant to accompany the dating and getting to know each other. If your gifts aren’t thoughtful--that is, well-suited to the person you are pursuing--they’re well within their rights to call the whole thing off. Originally, the final say was supposed to go to the parents, because each gift would be met with installments of a dowry from them.” 

“That seems a bit like trapping someone in exchanges.” Hermione says, ruefully refilling her glass of sparkling cranberry juice.

Draco smiles. “That’s entirely the point. It’s all about intent. You don’t really double down on these things without having a fair bit of confidence it will go your way in the end.” 

“So how did it go? With Astoria Greengrass’ parents? They must have felt slighted.” 

Draco lets out a little laugh. “They were just in talks. A marriage contract is a bit different from a courtship. There is a lot of negotiation.” 

Hermione’s nose scrunches up. It’s a cute look on her, and close enough to a similar expression on Pansy that it makes him laugh. She giggles and says, “This is all very confusing. I mean, how do you know which takes precedence? What if you have multiple suitors? What if you’re being courted and courting someone else at the same time? I imagine it would make dinners very messy.” 

“You have no idea.” Draco says. And then, because the thought just occurred to him and he’s been sitting on it for a while, he asks, “Why didn’t you and Ron stay together?” 

He regrets it immediately, and is expecting her to scold him for being invasive, but she just gives him a wry smile, and makes him wait as she bites into her sandwich. “Has this been bothering you?” 

He rolls his eyes, and hides his scowl behind sipping his own drink. “Perhaps.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Draco. Ron’s besotted with you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” But the testimony from his best friend does soothe a fear he’s been trying to ignore.

Hermione sighs. “We just don’t work that way. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Ron, and I like to think he loved me, too. But I don’t think we’re able to give each other what we need. And I personally would like to focus on my career. The Ministry is just awful.” 

He snorts at her answer, not that he doesn’t agree with the last bit. It’s not quite the answer he was looking for, but he supposes the specifics are none of his business. 

Talking to her is a bit easier, after that. They’ve reached an understanding, and she really is terribly bright. Conversation with her inevitably turns to debate, and discussions of theory. Sometimes they snatch napkins and spare parchment and scribble equations onto it, discussing this or that work of an arithmancer, or the logistics of homemade spells and curses and charms. Ron and Potter are baffled by them, but it works, in its own way.

**XI.**

“When are you going to consider giving me grandchildren, Draco?” Father calls, marching his way into Draco’s flat as he always does. 

“I’m twenty-three, Father,” Draco answers back, from the kitchen. 

Ron, who was leaning on the counter contentedly watching him cook, has lost all the color in his face. Draco laughs at him and leans over for a quick kiss. That is how Father finds them, judging by the derisive noise that sounds over their shoulders. 

“Uhm,” Ron squeaks, “hi, Lucius.” 

He’s so funny. Sometimes he can’t wait to make Father angry. It’s what started all of this. Other times, it’s like Father steps into his face and he loses all of his Gryffindor courage.

Father sneers at him. “Mr. Weasley.” 

Draco gives him a bright look over his shoulder. “That’s me now, too, Father!”

Then he goes right back to cooking, content that he’s gotten in his periodic round of driving the man nutty.

“Your age means nothing,” Father says, continuing their earlier conversation. “Your mother was nineteen when she had you.” 

“Oh, can you imagine the horror, husband mine? We’re losing the window. I’m going to perish from old age any day now.” Draco drawls Ron's way. 

Ron rolls his eyes. “Don’t joke about things like that, you git.”

“I’ll joke about whatever I please!” Draco huffs, and then he purses his lips, because he doesn’t want Ron to see that he’s fighting a smile. 

He thinks Ron sees it anyway, judging by the way he reaches out to squeeze his arm before slinking out of the kitchen, murmuring about giving them some privacy.

“You know, Draco, if your goal is to get back at me for… everything that happened, I rather think you’ve achieved it?” 

Draco pauses. He’d been chopping away at potatoes for a stew. The broth is bubbling lowly on the stove top, its soothing scent curling between them. Father looks out of place in his characteristic dark dress robes, walking stick tight in his hand. Among Ron’s goofy decorations and the dry erase board of chores on the muggle fridge and the mismatched tables of the small dining room, he cuts a striking figure. Draco remembers staring proudly up at him as a child and being convinced no one could ever dare to stand taller. Now, he just sees a tired man. 

Draco masters all of his patience and love for his Father and says, “Please never imply that I am with Ron to make some sort of statement. He is as much my friend as he is someone I love, and I am lucky to have him.” 

Father’s very visibly about to muster up a retort, but Draco tilts his head and raises his brows in warning, a perfect imitation of Mother’s iconic look of censure. Father falls silent right away. Then he stares up at the ceiling, in search of patience, and says, “I understand.” 

He certainly does not, but he knows that Draco is content to summarily banish him from the flat for being too frustrating. Draco washes his hands and takes Father’s coat, and then his walking stick, and invites him to sit at the table. They share stilted conversation as Draco flits about the kitchen, entirely focused. He calls Ron back in, and they share a nice enough dinner, with Draco ruling the conversation as is his wont.

**XII.**

Ron is hopeless with amusement every time Draco comes home with dusty books, demanding they go over baby names.

“That’s years in the future, Draco. Can’t we just enjoy each other?” He’ll ask.

And Draco will say, “I can only put up with you for so long.” 

They peruse family trees, laughing at some older names. For a girl, Draco is briefly set on Cedrella, because he likes an ironic turn or two, but Ron just shakes his head and says it sounds like something from an Addams Family, whoever they are. Certainly not Purebloods, he thinks. 

Ron shyly confesses that he likes the Black family tradition of constellation names, but they’re never able to settle on anything. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They have time. It feels intoxicating to say that, to think it. They have time. When the Manor had been repurposed for the Dark Lord, Draco had been convinced that his life had a timestamp. Then, suddenly faced with the reality that he had to plan for a future, he’d felt adrift. He’d made a personal vow to never use his wand in a fight again, but had no other ambitions. The Draco of years ago may have laughed himself into hysterics at seeing him now, married and planning for children as his parents circle him like particularly anxious sharks. It feels amazing. 

**XIII.**

When their friends meet properly, it’s terribly awkward for the first half hour. Draco’s friends were incorrigible bullies (or, in Blaise’s case, pointedly uninvolved), Ron’s friends are making honest efforts at being better, but they’re hesitant. They gather in the Ministry’s charity Quidditch pitch to fly and maybe enjoy a picnic, but spend a few tense moments sitting tensely on the grass. 

It’s Pansy who breaks the silence by turning to Potter and saying, “I’m sorry. For trying to give you up that day. I was terrified. That doesn’t mean I was right.” 

Potter blinks. Then he smiles and says, “I forgive you.” 

Next to him, Ginny is giving him a look that screams, _I don’t_ , but she bodily tamps down on her frustration and just nods. 

Luna looks right at Blaise and says, “You really are terribly handsome. I’ve always wanted to tell you.” 

Blaise preens, because that’s just what he’s like, and leans over to take her hand and press a kiss onto the back of it, grinning at her tinkling laugh. 

And just like that, the frigidity of the moment passes. Longbottom and Greg, to Draco’s pleasant surprise, are able to find a common ground on plants of all things. When he comments on it in Ron’s ear, Ron laughs and asks how he never noticed Longbottom has a knack for herbology. Hermione plies Pansy with more questions about “Pureblood ritual,” and Blaise is quickly able to lower the hackles of Finnegan and Dean with a well-placed and surprisingly knowledgeable joke about the similarities between football and Quidditch. After a while, they decide on a half-hearted formation and prepare to play some approximation of the Quidditch. 

Draco, who has no desire to face Potter as Seeker ever again, ignores Ron’s protests about balance and sits behind him with his arms tight on his waist. Draco casts a voice-amplification charm and gives a biased running commentary on the proceedings of the game, which catches the tail-end of Ron squawking about how he should be able to count on his own husband cheering him on. They all dissolve into laughter, carrying the hesitant sweetness of their truce on the winds.

**XIV.**

They don’t trade I-love-yous very often. The both of them are more reserved to action: Draco with his huffy devotion to reminding Ron that he is not, in fact, dumb, and the late nights he spends researching magical items in the hopes of giving him a head-start at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Ron continues with his cleaning and ironing and sometimes comes home with takeout, never forgetting the sweets. He washes Draco’s hair in the shower, and he insists on sleeping by the door when they go to bed, and by now holding his arm out for Draco to grab whenever they walk or apparate seems to be second nature. Ron patiently shows him how to use what muggle technology he’s familiar with, but sometimes he’s clearly making things up because he doesn’t want Draco to laugh at him, so of course he laughs anyway, and they both struggle to figure out what will work with magic and what won’t. Ron’s ridiculously proud to get the coffee machine working, and Draco toys around with all its fancy combinations to make sure he has some waiting for Ron each morning.They wait for each other in the halls of the Ministry, and each time Ron takes his hand and squeaks out that Draco makes him nervous, alright, that’s why he’s sweaty, Draco can feel something building up in his chest. 

He likes their life--the back and forth, the cramped but comfortable feeling of the flat, with their mismatched decorations and their awful little bed. It makes the scrutiny worth it. The Daily Prophet has given up on its more aggressive articles, but he’s learned to bury the reflexive anger at seeing a picture of the two of them gracing its society pages, innocuous (and often private) moments blasted in motion for all to see. They want there to be something between them that doesn’t exist. A playfight is captured and the article that follows is riddled with implications that their relationship is somehow abusive, and each advancement Draco makes with his career is followed up by the suggestion that he’d somehow married his way into good fortune, especially his appointment as head medic for the Auror department.

“It’s not like they’d be saying half of this stuff if I weren’t Harry’s friend,” Ron complains, after work, bitter and upset on Draco’s behalf. 

“They certainly would,” Draco tells him, “because I can’t imagine a lifetime in which my family didn’t make the choices we made. It’s fine, Ron. Just promise you won’t leave me over it.” 

Ron frowns. “I wouldn’t leave you over something like that. It's annoying, but I’ve dealt with worse."

“If you say so.” Draco concedes, shortly. 

Ron’s not willing to let it go, so he reaches up for Draco’s hands, pulls him to where he’s standing between his legs, staring down at him from his place on the couch. Draco loves this couch and wants to take it everywhere. They’ve had many firsts on this couch. He wonders if this might be the first discussion of divorce. 

Ron surprises him instead by saying, “You know, after everything, I think we’re allowed to to be a little barmy.” 

“What?” Draco asks, around a laugh. 

Ron squeezes his hands, rubs his thumbs along Draco’s knuckles. “I think we’re allowed to be a bit silly about each other, and hang what anyone else says.” 

“Why, because you say so?” Draco arches a brow at him. 

“Absolutely because I say so.” Ron nods, like this makes any sense. 

Draco cups his cheeks and kisses his forehead, and then his nose, then both cheeks. Finally, he pulls Ron into a soft kiss.

“I love you.” He says. 

“I love you more,” Ron answers. 

This starts a playful argument, and ends with them curled up together, puzzling over how to get the remote working with the television Hermione gifted them.

**XV.**

The Ministry is horrible about disguising its balls as charity functions. Draco has never been invited to one. Truthfully, he has never wanted to go. Still, when they receive a joint invitation for the New Year function, Draco is suffused with a quick burst of puerile frustration and considers burning the thing before Ron can see it. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Mother reminds him that there are better ways to earn revenge, so he sits on it instead, knowing that people will just hate to see him there.

Ron groans when he reads it, but then he props his chin into his hand and asks if Draco wants to attend, and Draco lies and says he’d love to go, and isn’t it nice that the invitation says _misters_ Weasley? That’s enough to distract him. The rest of December passes in a swirl of lovely new things and tentative new friends and morning kisses tasting of poorly made machine coffee. 

Draco doesn’t even bother to search for any suitable clothing, settling on the Italian robes. Ron sputters when he sees them (he’s worn his Auror robes, as is customary for these kinds of things), but then he grins at the private little smile Draco shoots his way. 

They’re delighted to see Auror Horan in the Ministry’s grand hall of charity events. He laughs and pulls them into a sideways hugs. Retirement has been kind to him. They visit him sometimes, when they’re free, and he regales them with tales of his youth and wry commentary on the Auror department.

“How soon before the brown-nosing begins, d’you expect?” Ron asks him, under his breath. 

Auror Horan tilts his head and says, “Right about now!” and then he leaves them there to contend with the eagle-eyed witch heading their way. 

She congratulates them, and then asks how they’re getting on. Draco vaguely recognizes her as a classmate who’d been a couple years below them, one of the more enterprising Hufflepuffs. Draco gently redirects her away from asking for Ron’s endorsement of her wife’s new line of broomsticks, and then finds himself doing the same thing time and again. People want to know if they're thinking about children. Others ask after Draco's parents, clearly uncomfortable that they have to do so. Some of them talk only to Ron, like Draco isn't there. Others want Ron to make appearances at poorly explained fundraisers, which means they think they're something Ron would object to, and also that he's unintelligent enough to just do it without questioning anything. Each time, Draco patiently interjects, asking Ron guiding questions, effectively stonewalling them.

During a lull, Draco snags a chute of champagne from a passing waitstaff and downs a third of it in a few quick pulls. “You might have told me this was an issue!” 

Ron laughs, tilts his head across the ballroom where Potter is tiredly fielding the chattering of what must be a dozen people, and then at where Hermione is pretending she can’t hear the young man following her as she all but sprints towards the refreshments. “Happens all the time. Anyway, you might have told me you were so good at getting people to stop talking.”

Draco rolls his eyes, and then he pulls Ron aside, pushing the rest of his champagne into Ron’s hands. “Finish that for me, husband mine.” 

Ron complies. He'd stick his hand into fire if Draco told him to. He winces and gags, which is what Draco was expecting, because he hates champagne. Draco laughs in his face, shrugging when Ron calls him a berk. 

“What was that, liquid courage?” 

“Of course! Now, I am going to give you a smash course in talking at these functions.” 

“Crash course,” Hermione corrects, having finally made her way over to them with a bedraggled Potter in tow. 

They’ve drawn the eyes of almost every occupant, including an amused Minister Shacklebolt, who watches them from the corner of his dark eyes with a half-smile.

Draco makes them all pretend he’s someone trying to sell them something. Or his child’s hand in marriage. The difference is very small. He talks first, and they reply. He asks what’s new for them, and then hisses at Potter for being too detailed. Being vague is the best way to politely shutter someone out of continued conversation. He encourages them to remind him of their newest projects, or some charity they may be invested in, then has them ask him questions about whether or not he’s interested in investing. Another way to have someone turning heel is to scare them into thinking you might be soliciting money from them without offering anything in exchange. Potter and Hermione quickly notice that he’s not as harsh with Ron as he is with them for messing up, and he primly announces that he’s Ron’s secret weapon and thus will always be at hand. They scoff and laugh and complain, but when they all scatter, they seem prepared for the worst of it, and shoot visibly grateful looks his way when the crowds thin.

“You’re amazing.” Ron tells him, open adoration in his gaze. 

“Aren't I?" Draco asks, flourishing under the praise.

Ron shakes his head at him. When a quiet tune springs into life, one of Celestina Warbeck’s quieter ballads, Ron leads him out onto the floor. He’s not much of a dancer at all, despite Draco’s lessons, and seems content to wrap his long arms around Draco’s waist and sway aimlessly with him. Draco rests his head on his chest and closes his eyes. 

When someone is looking at you, sometimes it feels like a physical presence. Draco feels the weight of strangers’ gazes on him like hands curling around his shoulders. The traitorous thought creeps into his head that continuing to be seen with him won’t do Ron any favors, but he squashes it.

Ron leans down. “Do you remember when I came into your infirmary burping up slugs?” 

Draco chuckles. “I’ll have you know that when I got home, I nearly made myself sick from how hard I laughed about it. Just like the first time. I was nearly crying from how intense it was, in second year.” 

Ron flicks him on the ear. “Shut it. I’m trying to be romantic. Anyway, I was going to tell you how glad I was that happened and that we ended up here.” 

There is only one proper way to respond to that. He pulls on Ron’s collar, tilts his head, and presses an insistent kiss on his big stupid mouth, so smitten that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s no mistaking the sound of camera shutters, or the chattering of those around him. Draco doesn’t care. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please share your thoughts if you have the time!


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